


Banshee Prince

by KaedeRavensdale



Series: The Lion The Raven and the Hound [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Civil War, Conflicted Nathanos, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Going to try and update this every tuesday, M/M, Nathanos is less of an ass to people he likes, Past Sylvanas x Nathanos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: He’d sworn an oath, long ago, to stand beside Sylvanas in the defense of the Forsaken against all that would threaten them. He never imagined that, one day, she would threaten them. Torn between duty and loyalty, wedged by a series of events beyond his control into conflict with his Queen, Nathanos is forced to bear a mantle that he never wanted to keep his people safe.
Relationships: Nathanos Blightcaller/Anduin Wrynn, Nathanos Blightcaller/Sylvanas Windrunner
Series: The Lion The Raven and the Hound [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960237
Comments: 59
Kudos: 101





	1. His Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys are interesting in the music I've been writing to for this one here's a playlist link: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLnSJSd__kxT76O5RWvStudd45R0sM5Mgz   
> Let me know if it doesn't work.

Dawn painted the line of the horizon with a shatter of red behind the towering pines. Nathanos stood atop the ramparts of what once had been the scintillating capital of a powerful Human Kingdom, now fallen to ruins. Much like its people. The great walls a cold press against the palms of his hands.Traveling up through the narrow archer’s talons into the tips of his fingers. Solid. Safe. Enduring. Home. Or, at least, the closest to such a thing he’d ever known in undeath. That any among the Forsaken had. He leaned his weight against them, now, and cast his burning gaze out across the black carpet of tents and carts and bodies clustered close to the earth like stinging nettles. Broken only by the looming forms of massive siege towers.

Siege towers brought to bring down the walls he stood on. To open his city like a hornet’s hive, exposing his people to the dangers of a world which hated them. To steal their only haven and make it theirs instead. ‘Reclaim it’ for the living. Claiming Lordaeron wasn’t already in the hands of her ‘true people’.

The Dark Ranger Lord’s fists clenched.

“Blightcaller.”

Schooling his expression into something less forbidding, Nathanos turned at the sound of her familiar voice. His gaze found the Rogue’s black clad form-all but invisible among the shadows of pre-dawn-a moment later. “Lillian.” He stepped away from the wall. A cold wind tugging lightly on the tails of his heavy overcoat. “Is something the matter?”

The former Scarlet gave him a side-eyed once over, and then gestured over the side of the wall with one boney finger. “If you haven’t noticed before now, the  _ entire Alliance _ is at our doorstep.”

“And here I’d thought I was staring at a strangely lively treeline. Don’t act like such an imbecile. I expect better of you.” Having his back turned to their oncoming foes made his toes itch but the Blightcaller forced himself to ignore the instinct and continue facing her. “What have you really come to me for?”

For a while, Lillian was quiet. Something in the way she looked him over was wary. Not like a deer would when looking at a wolf, but like a Black Drake might a larger member of its Flight. “Teldrassil.” She said. “They came because of Teldrassil. Because of what she did.”

_ The rattling clatter of the catapults firing, close enough to where he stood that Nathanos could feel the heat of the munitions they bore. That the roar of them would have defeaned a living man. Stood upon the rocky shoreline, he watched the Azerite fly, leaving trails of blue and golden light in their wake as they went. The very blood of Azeroth itself. The heart blood of their planet. A potent weapon, now, against the Alliance. _

_ The fire that it set to the World Tree was orange. Orange like the flames which had spilled from the maws of the Red Dragons the Orcs had ridden during the Second War. Orange as they consumed the bark and leaves and branches until the whole of the ‘Crown of the Earth’ was reduced to a pillar of smoke and screaming as the Night Elves trapped atop it burned. _

“They came,” Nathanos could hear the growl in his own voice and forced his temper to remain in check, lest he lash out at her, “because they hate us. Because they fear us. As the living fear all that which they don’t understand.” She was misguided. Confused. Frightened. That was all. The Forsaken had the right to question. The right to voice concern. As much as it irked him to hear anyone suggest ill of Sylvanas’ intentions. “The Dark Lady only does that which is best for the Forsaken. Our interests, ultimately, are what she has at heart. Even when she keeps her plans to herself. Trust in her. We will endure.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I swore, after she pried me from the Lich King’s talons, to aid her in defending the Forsaken from all that might wish to threaten them.” He felt the tension in his shoulders, coiled down his spine, keenly. Familiar, like the resistance of a drawn bow string. “You haven’t been with us long. Don’t know the full extent of what she’s sacrificed to preserve our people. All that she has given. All that she has stood against. Without her, we’d be nothing. Thralls, still, to Arthas.”

“Look around you, Nathanos.” His narrowed eyes didn’t serve sufficient warning to silence her, and the Rogue barreled onwards. “Have you ever thought, perhaps, that we’ve become thralls to something else? To her?”

The tension in his frame gave way and he surged forwards. Seizing her by the throat. His weight and momentum pinning her smaller body against the opposite wall. The dog bite urge to break her for suggesting such a thing almost enough to consume him the way the Azerite fueled flames had consumed the Night Elves’ pitiful tree. “ _ Never _ let me hear such a thing from you again!” He snarled it, low and angry in his chest. “She is my Queen! She is  _ our _ Queen! We must trust in her vision.” They had nowhere else to turn.

Lilian gazed up at him, half bent backwards and with a stone block digging into her spine. But it wasn’t fear that he found in her sallow, murky eyes. “Wasn’t she more than that? To you.”

“Once.” Pity. That was what that look was, Nathanos realized numbly, as he relinquished his grip and stepped backwards. His shoulders curled. “A lifetime ago. But that man, that woman, they’re dead now. Have been for years. There’s no room for such feelings anymore.” The closest thing left for him was service.

“Nathanos.” It seemed Voss wasn’t done speaking with him yet. Though he felt very much done with her. A headache had begun to build behind his eyes as the Dark Magic which bound his soul to his reforged corpse agitated his clotted blood. Forcing it towards his temples. He just wanted to get away from her-one of the few people he could normally stand-but her voice chased him even while Lillian herself remained right where she’d been standing. “Even if you can justify Teldrassil, what about Arathi? I thought the Forsaken valued free will.”

“The Forsaken have always, and will always, value free will.” He said. “But our tolerance for the choices made end when that free will poses a threat. Joining Menethil, joining the  _ Alliance _ , was most definitely a threat.”

Lilian didn’t seem to have any response to that, or maybe he’d finally made it out of earshot, because all that met his latest words was silence. As the ambience of night, and the occasional interruption of far off shouting in Common or Dwarvish, filled his ears Nathanos’ mind wandered against his will. Running away from him to the skies over the Arathi Highlands, mounted on the back of his bat and bow in hand. Firing at his own people alongside his fellow Dark Rangers. Alongside Sylvanas.

Every shot fired, every arrow which found its home in the backs of the fleeing Forsaken who’d only wanted to rejoin their families, felt like a physical blow. When he’d looked to Sylvanas, his Queen had appeared wholly unruffled. At the time, he’d simply thought her good at concealing her true feelings. Better, most certainly, than him.

Now, Nathanos wasn’t so sure.

A flash of magic, followed by a flash of fire, dragged him back into reality and the Dark Ranger Lord froze mid-stride. His head snapping up to catch sight of a young Troll, and the familiar form of Varok Saurfang, on the rampart ahead of him. Neither had seen him, so he crept closer and ducked behind one of the pillars holding up the covered roof of the corner tower on the wall. He wasn’t in close enough earshot to catch every word, but managed to pick up enough to glean the conversation’s gist. It was the Troll’s first battle. He sought advice from a veteran he idolized, having heard tell of him in his father’s stories. His name was Zekhan. Saurfang’s all too helpful grunt of ‘don’t die’ was delivered in an unfriendly growl. His assessment of how many Alliance were present-’too many’-one which was both irritatingly vague and a perfect mirror of his own concerns. To Lillian’s. He grit his teeth and clenched his fists. Watched the Orc drop a necklace into the flames and paint his broad face with ash. The Troll scrambled after him, calling out his name.

Dawn had fully come, now. Light would begin to spill across the land, soon, and with it the advance of the Alliance would resume anew. He had things to be doing. Should be reporting to his Queen right about now-now that he really thought about it, he was probably late-but he couldn’t contain his curiosity. So the Dark Ranger Lord, instead, slunk to the wall and peered out once more across Tirisfal Glades. Saurfang had removed the majority of his armor and left it on the ramparts, beside the burning fire with the necklace still inside. The Orc emerged from the darkness of the nearest entrance before Nathanos could fully consider such a thing’s significance, bearing only a torch and his axe. Zekhan running after him a moment later.

Saurfang, displeased by this, turned and snarled at him. Pushed him away. Then pushed him down. The Blightcaller had never been much of a lip reader, but thought he could make out ‘you think you know me, is that it?’ as the Old Soldier drew up on him.

Violence among their own forces was the very last thing they needed, so Nathanos took the action available to him. Lifting the curling warhorn from his belt and watching both straighten, and then turn to look as the low hollow wail rattled in the cold air. The red banner of the Horde, mounted on the wall beside him alongside a collage of skulls, rippled in the wind. Whether or not the sight of his narrowed gaze or the distant thunder of siege towers grinding into motion was responsible, both Orc and Troll took off running at full tilt. Nathanos paused only long enough to snag the-now slightly blackened-necklace free of the flames before he turned to face the staircase they’d have to summit. Zekhan led the way, bounding up the stairs, until he caught sight of him still standing right where he’d been. Cringing and retreating a step into Saurfang’s chest, as the Overlord crested them himself.

“Blightcaller.”

Nathanos all but flung the necklace at the Orc and shoved his way past him. His shoulder connecting, hard, with the older man’s as he went. “Don’t be so keen to cast aside a life you haven’t lost!” The sturdy walls of home, of safety, pressed into his palms again as he vaulted over the side and dropped down. Disengaging off the stones in a precise heel-turn before he hit the earth and landing softly on the grass below. His pace swift as he moved among the ruins, mounted another set of steps and entered what had once been the throneroom of King Terenas Menethil.

Sylvanas waited for him, lounging on the High Throne of Lordaeron. Fingers drumming against the lion paw shaped arm rests and bow rested against her knee. “Ah, my Champion arrives at last.”

“Apologies, my Queen.” Nathanos dipped his head in repentance, straightening only once he caught her soft grunt of acknowledgement. “Time escaped me.”

“Time is escaping all of us, I think, Blightcaller.” With a languid motion, projecting all the unbothered predatory grace of a lynx, Sylvanas threw herself from the throne. Descending the dias towards him. “The Alliance comes for us, seeking ‘justice’ for what happened in Dark Shore. Comes to take what is ours.” Her hand found his chest. Archer’s talons dragging along the leather of his overcoat. Catching, slightly, on the rungs of the mail he wore beneath it. “They wish to hurt our people, as we have hurt theirs. To destroy us. But we won’t allow that, will we?”

He looked into her eyes, then. Sanguine, like his, but sharp. Not what he remembered, vaguely, from their time together in life. From that long ago night in the broken remnants of his family plot, when she was pulling her arrows from his legs. But she was still his Queen. She always would be. “I have not forgotten my oath.”

Satisfied, she stepped back from him. Out of reach. And a part of Nathanos, desiccated near to nothingness but nevertheless not quite dead even after so long, was left aching in her absence. “I’ve a job for you.” She said. “See to it that our people are evacuated to safety in Orgrimmar while our defenses hold the Alliance at bay.” Lifting her bow from her side, Sylvanas handed it to him. Watching him force his confusion down and, slowly, reach out to take it. “The Boy King will inevitably breach our walls and come to join me here, in the throne room. Once he does, we’ll trap him here.”

“My Lady?”

“All the preparations have already been seen to.” She turned away from him fully, then. Crossing the room to resume her imperious perch. “On the opposite side of the courtyard, you’ll find the catalyst awaiting you. Once all is in place, make your way there and pour it in. The escape to the waiting gunship.” In an enviable display, Sylvanas collapsed back onto the throne. Crossing one leg over the other. “The loss of my dearest hound is the last thing I can have happen if we’re to win this war.”

“Your will be done.” He’d been a hound, and little more, for years now. So why did it hurt to have that fact put to voice? “I will not fail you.”

“I know you won’t, Nathan.” The tone of her voice, now, almost sounded like praise. The Blightcaller didn’t get much of a chance to process that matter before the throne room quaked. A great cloud of debris raining down on his shoulders. “They’ve come. Carry out your orders, Nathanos. We shall speak again once this is over.”

This dismissal wasn’t lost on him. Shrugging her heavy bow over his shoulders to join his own, Nathanos hurried from the room. Just in time to see a flaming mortar-not the Azerite variety, thank goodness-crash down into the middle of the courtyard. Scattering a party of plate-clad Orcs and leaving a crater ten feet deep in the earth.

Cursing under his breath, the Blightcaller took off towards the far side of the ruins. Knowing that was where his people, who luckily had been removed from the underground complex of the Under City itself during the night, were gathered awaiting transport to safety in the Orcish capital. The sound of the front gates being blown off its hinges snarled at his heels.

All around him void portals were opening; rends of violet shadow magic ripping reality itself apart. Cadres of blue and gold clad soldiers spilling through them like maggots from wounds in the rotted flesh of a corpse. He fell on the first few without a moment’s hesitation. Landing among them in a graceful pounce. The axes in his hands opened two throats in the time it took the others to react.

Nathanos parried a sword against the pommel of his right blade. Bringing up the left to cleave off the man’s arm at the elbow. Leaping high over the Gnome who’d made a concerted effort to sneak up behind him and drive what was either a very small sword or a very large dagger into his ankles. 

Splattered with blood, the surrounding courtyard beginning to flood with more and more soldiers from both sides, Nathanos kept moving. Not letting himself look over his shoulder at the holes which had been blown in the protective walls of their last haven by the damnable Mage’s flying ship; at the armored figure wielding a blazing blade, which stepped in among the debris only to be promptly bull-rushed by Saurfang; at the Old Wolf who’s rabid bellow pursued him even faster than the rhythmic thud of paws.

He ran. Ignoring his pride. Ignoring the urge to finish what they’d started in Stormheim. To strike down the beast at last and present his pelt to Sylvanas to pad her throne. Ran until he lost the raging animal among the crush of bodies. Dodging around embattled friend and foe alike. Ducking some stray blows and turning others until, finally, he reached where the frightened kresh of undead waited. They seemed somewhat soothed by his appearance, though the effect was barely noticeable, and it was easy enough to get them-and all of their bats and horses and hounds, alongside what few belongings they could carry-moving through the correct portal once it had been opened.

Far side. Catalyst. Pour it in and run. These orders rattled around in his skull like wild, angry bees as he watched his people flee. Barking commands at those who look like they might wish to linger. Tension coiling once more in his muscles as he waited until, finally, the last one was through and the portal winked out.

He was off again an instant later. Vaulting over a half-crumbled wall and skidding into the room Sylvanas had mentioned. His red eyes ricocheted around until they landed on a waiting pot of something which looked and smelled like the active agent in Blight. But that couldn’t be what it was. Blighting their city, their home, all that they had, was preposterous. Surely she wouldn’t ask him to do something like...like this.

Nathanos didn’t give himself the chance to further question the matter. Pouring the full contents of the pot into the open shaft before him and the bolting for where the gunship had been docked. 

The great engines throbbed and thrummed around him, but even beneath their thunder Nathanos thought he heard another, different sound. The rumble of stone on stone, as if a mountain were imploding; left hollowed out to collapse in on itself. Thought that he could sense a shaking in the earth not caused by the ship as it roused itself and took wing like a fire breathing Wyrm tugging at his collar like grave-chilled claws. Rising up and up. Clearing the walls and towers of his home. The grey stone falling away beneath him, faster than could merely be explained by the ascent of the ship.

A moment later, Nathanos realized why.

Green fumes smoked and billowed over the surrounding grounds to obscure his vision and consume those still left below to fight. Vile sludge boiling up from between each stone he’d traced his hands across, each metal bolt he’d helped attach. And then the earth’s black maw opened and the ruined city fell away. Crashing down upon the complex beneath it consumed by the sea of Blight which had swallowed the Undercity. Burying his home, their home, in a grave from which it could never be exhumed.

It was gone. Everything was gone. She’d engineered it, and had made him an unwitting, unwilling party to her plans. Out of what? Spite? Not to let the living have it? Or was it to sever all the ties they had, apart from her?

Lillian’s words from mere hours before rang once more in his head as his fingers clutched for purchase on the railing. As he watched those left behind attempt to flee. And fail. And fall. Collapsing to die, writhing and clutching at their throats and weeping eyes, in the mud. Orcs. Humans. Elves of all kinds. Even some among his own people. Among the ones he was supposed to protect.

_ Night air. Flapping wings. The arrow from his bow flying true. _

He didn’t care that his thoughts were surely plain upon his face for all to see. Didn’t care that the other leaders who’d been present at the battle, as well as many soldiers, might very well be staring. Didn’t care that his knees had gone so weak that only the solid wall of the ship was left to hold him up. All he had space for in his head was a singe, traitorous thought.

_ Sylvanas. _ He could see her, below them. A pillar of dark smoke cutting its way towards the underbelly of the ship; a bruise against the sky. _ My Queen. _ Her bow upon his back felt as if it weighed more than life and death and war itself. As if, at any moment, the burden of it and all that it meant might reduce all he was and ever could be to insignificant dust.  _ What have you done? _

She landed beside him what seemed, at once, like a moment and an eternity later. Wisps and curls of that darkness, ephemeral, as she had always been, just mist which slipped around and through his best efforts to grasp hold of, rolling over the deck at her feet. Across the wound in the Glade where their sanctuary had once been stood the Alliance: Wrynn, Windrunner, Greymane and Proudmoore. Unharmed. He handed her weapon back to her, when she reached for it. He didn’t look at her.

He  _ couldn’t  _ look at her.

How could he ever show his face before his people again when he’d had a hand in this?

It was the booming voice of the Tauren High Chieftain that finally pulled his eyes away from the destruction. Bloodhoof’s great heavy head was lowered. His black horns, and the golden band which adorned them, flashed in the light. “You abandoned Saurfang to die!”

Nathanos contained a start as his gaze flicked around the airship’s deck. Noticing for the first time that the Orc in question wasn’t there. Sylvanas turned from her smug staring contest with the Young Lion to face Baine, though her simper never faltered. “It was the death he wanted.” A warrior’s death. Defending his people. Nathanos felt a sharp stab of pain through the old wound in his chest and curled his fingers at his side to keep from passing them against it. “If that troubles you, you’re free to leap back down and join him. Or you can tend to the living.”

For a moment, the Blightcaller thought the Tauren might attack her. Then he let out a disgusted sounding snort and turned away. Hooves heavy against the sun baked wood. “For the Horde.”

Nathanos watched him go. And watched Sylvanas do the same out of the corner of his eye. A part of him, detached and distant, envied Bloodhoof for the option.

It felt almost like a blasphemy.

“Come, my dearest Champion.” Sylvanas directed the words at him without looking in his direction. Her tattered wine red cloak fluttering at her back as she set off across the deck. “I would speak with you.” He remained silent as he followed. Looking passed her form, but never directly at her. Down a set of steps into the bowls of the ship and into the captain’s quarters. “What troubles you, Nathanos?”

Something deep within him found a sense of danger in that question. He didn’t answer right away and took his time closing the door. Ensuring it was secure and that they would not be overheard. “My loyalty to the Forsaken is absolute.” He said softly. Daring, at last, to face her. Letting her gaze kindle him aflame. “I have not forgotten my oath.”

“And yet,” she said, “you doubt.”

He couldn’t help it. Not in light of this. And the more he did the more it felt like an egregious betrayal. “Why did you destroy our home?”

Nathanos didn’t know what he was hoping for or what he feared. Sylvanas measured him for what felt like an eternity. And seemed to find him wanting. She simply said. “Nothing lasts, Dark Ranger Lord. Remember that.” and left him standing there. Alone.

It wasn’t an answer.


	2. The Prince Who Was Promised

The _ Tempest’s Roar _ glided through the cold darkness above the Great Sea. Silent but for the heavy drone of its engines as Nathanos sat beside the railing, one knee pulled up to his chest and the tails of his surcoat pooled about him. Looking out into the night, far into the horizon, where the utter lack of landmarks transformed the water and the sky into an unbroken sea of satin stars. The metal dug into the meat of his shoulder. Had he been a living man, between the cold and how long he’d held the position, his limbs would have long since gone numb.

They’d been without a home to truly call their own for seven days. Had been without a sight of land for nearly five. Would arrive, at last, in Durotar in just over a handful more hours. He hadn’t seen much of Sylvanas since they’d spoken last, within the gunship’s belly. None of the other inhabitants of the craft seemed keen to even notice him. He’d heard no word on whom, if any, among those fighting had escaped.

Nathanos wondered if Lillian had pulled through. If his last real interaction with one of the very few he truly considered among his friends would be nearly knocking her off the walls of their home. A home they no longer had because of his actions. Because of Sylvanas’ orders.

Another radiating pulse, almost like a physical pain, tore through him. This time he didn’t hold himself back and slipped a hand beneath his coat. Beneath his armor. Running fingers along the dent which bisected his sternum where Rammstein’s hook had punched clean through, years before. Finding nothing new among its familiar, ugly contours.

Nathanos sighed and shifted against the railing. Listening to the way the countless links and buckles that he wore alongside the clinging contents of his belt and the arrows in his quiver clattered together. The soft noise all but undetectable beneath the ambient thrumming all around him. Stars swam before his vision. Cold and silver and distant. Forming shapes and patterns and signs before his eyes; some that he recognized and others that he didn’t. Invading the repeating image of the ground opening to devour all that was left to them in the world but doing nothing to drive them away. Flecking them, instead, with other images. The broad set back of an Orc, walking towards the enemy line with only a torch and an axe. The piercing blue gaze of a radiant youth in golden armor, stood atop a flying galleon.

Saurfang had cared enough for his people that he’d gone to his death to stall their enemies.

Anduin Wrynn loved those who served his word so much he’d resurrected his entire army with a single holy spell. The massive shell of Light so great and so bright Nathanos had seen it from where he’d been fighting.

Loyalty to her people. Love for her people. The willingness to give all that she was to see them happy. To see them safe. Once, Nathanos would have claimed these things of Sylvanas without question. She’d saved them from slavery. Led them out of darkness. Had brought them vengeance and a new purpose. But now...now he wasn’t sure.

“I have not forgotten my oath.” He told the slight divot in the railing just above his eye level with all the ferocity he could muster. Eyebrows drawing down over his red gaze. “I have  _ not _ forgotten!”

She’d shared her plans with him, once. Had claimed him her most loyal. Her most trusted. But those times were long passed. And these days attempting to know her, to know what she intended, was tantamount to chasing shadows. To holding on to smoke.

“She is my Queen.” He told the stars. The waves beneath him. The overhanging balloons which held the ship aloft. Accusing. “She  _ is _ my  _ Queen _ !”

**_Queen! Queen!_ ** The darkness heckled him. Mocking. Doubts gathering around his feet like starving rats. **_Killer Queen! Mad Monarch! Monster! Monster!_ **

_ “Shut up!” _ Nathanos leapt to his feet so quickly he nearly sent his bow, lying across his lap, toppling over the side. A patrolling Orc lept nearly a foot in the air and scrambled away, cursing under their breath as they went. The Blightcaller clutched at his head. At his hair. The collar of his surcoat. Anything he could find purchase against which might serve to ground him and chase that voice away. Silence his doubt. Make it all disappear before the poisonous vine which had rooted in his chest could strangle what remained of his heart any further.

**_She changed._ **

It had happened slowly. Begun long ago. Not with her death but with the Val’kyr. Whatever had happened up on the Frozen Throne, after Arthas’ fall.

**_Admit it. You don’t recognize her anymore._ **

He didn’t. He hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe he had and hadn’t wanted to admit it. But the reality of it could no longer be escaped. Somewhere along the line, protecting the Forsaken had ceased to be her greatest priority.

He’d pledged himself to the defense of his people.

She was his Queen.

Nathanos didn’t know what he was meant to do, now that those two things were placed in conflict. So he did nothing. And he stayed there. Paralysed. As dawn once more turned the far horizon pink and drove away the stars, and the whispering darkness with them, as the first signs of land became visible.

Gripping the rail he’d spent the night leaned against, Nathanos watched the red soil of the desert home of the Orcs draw nearer. The heat was not kind to their undead condition, especially those among his kin in a more rotted state than he was currently, yet this was the place they’d be forced to shelter now that the Undercity was no more. He watched the low-grown scrub and jagged outcroppings of rock roll by with dispassion. The towering dark iron gates of the Horde’s capital drew ever closer, and ever larger, as they approached until at last it lay beneath them. The broad set shadow of the  _ Tempest’s Roar _ slid silently over the open platform at the top. The open platform where his people had gathered; huddled like frightened herd animals in the presence of slavering wolves.

The Blightcaller felt her presence at his back. “We should go to them.” He turned. Searched her face. Sylvanas gazed down on their people, just as he had, but her face displayed nothing. “With all that they’ve lost, they need the assurance.”

“You coddle them. Like a doting father.”

Nathanos pulled up short, struck dumb. “My Lady?”

Her red eyes shifted to him, then. Pitiless and cold. “They survived. They will have their vengeance soon. They need no more than that. But if you wish to spoil them, Blightcaller, I won’t stand in your way.” Her heels tapped over the gunship’s deck as she turned once more to walk away. “See me in the Hold once you’re through.”

Nathanos disregarded the clawing feeling in his chest, lest he identify it as something like betrayal.

The gunship docked, at long last, against the side of the Zepplin tower once meant for use by the  _ Thunder Caller _ and Nathanos disembarked without a moment’s hesitation or looking back. Descending the inner staircase of the tower three at a time, leaping down the last dozen of them and making a beeline for the Orc at the Flightmaster’s station.

Managing, after a momentary argument which he most definitely didn’t have the patience for, to secure a Wyvern the Dark Ranger Lord swept back across the city and landed atop the wall.

He’d barely managed to dismount before a familiar figure materialized behind him. Nathanos absolutely didn’t jump. “Voss.” He grumbled. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”

The former Scarlet snorted. “What’s wrong, Blightcaller? Did you miss me already?” Her sallow eyes must have picked something out in his expression, then, because she followed up with “it would take more than a handful of Alliance to get rid of me.”

“I’m happy to hear that much.” A part of him was uncomfortable over how heartfelt that statement was. “You must have realized, in the few years you’ve known me, that I am a hound with a very small pack.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were a fool for saying that. For not realizing how big your ‘pack’ really is.”

Their feet clanged against the metal plating bolted to the top of the city’s front gate. His people milled listlessly about. A few lying curled up on what ratty looking blankets the Orcs could bring themselves to spare. A Forsaken woman in a singed skirt, her hair hanging down in a tattered curtain across her face, approached them. Reaching out with boney fingers and gripping hold of his coat. Peering up at him with eyeless sockets, though her voice carried the waiver of tears she was no longer able to shed.

“Blightcaller.” The others there had taken notice of his presence, now, and begun to converge. Their own hands held out. Reaching. Grasping. His arms. His cloak. Seeking comfort. Reassurance. Protection. Things he knew he couldn’t give them. “We’ve lost everything. They’ve taken it from us. What are we supposed to do now?”

“I-.” He didn’t know. Didn’t know what to tell them. How to break it to his kin that there  _ was _ nothing that could be done. “We must remember patience. And discipline. Our time will come.”

He was terribly aware that those words meant no more than the grains of red tinged sand faintly scattered about around them. But they served to soothe them enough that he could pull himself away and keep walking.

“Would you still tell them to trust Sylvanas,” Lillian’s voice drew his red gaze back to her, “given what she’s done?”

“Voss-.”

“The Alliance might have come to our doorstep, but it wasn’t Anduin Wrynn who took our home from us.” She said. “It was the Elven Witch who’d calls herself our Queen!”

Indignation at the slur reared up in his chest, but the growl he gave in response didn’t have nearly as much teeth as Nathanos would have liked. “I did it, Lillian. Not her.” He said. “I set off the reaction which Blighted Lordaeron, and the Undercity beneath it.” The reaction that had failed to claim even one of the Alliance’s leaders.

“Did you know what you were doing?” Her narrowed eyes demanded the truth. And Nathanos knew they’d see through his best attempts at deflection. “Did she tell you what it would do?”

The Blightcaller didn’t want to answer, but knew he couldn’t avoid it. “No.” The word tasted like ashes in his mouth. “Sylvanas hasn’t explained her plans to me in years. I’ve just done as I’ve been told. Because I believed that it was what was best for our people.”

“This.” She gestured at the ramshackle cots. The paltry overhang, erected in haste by calloused Orcish hands. The refugees, frightened and exposed beneath the scorching desert sun. “Do you believe that  _ this _ is what is best for us, Banshee Prince?”

“Don’t call me that!” He rounded on her, an echo of the same rage from out on the ramparts boiling up within him again. He held the impulse to lash out back. Not wanting to panic any of the Forsaken further by seeing him turn aggression on an ally.

“We’ve had a Queen for long enough. Too long, if she thinks that she can get away with this.”

“Be careful what you say where anyone can hear you!”

“I’m not the only one here who would be happy to follow a King instead. Most, if not all of us would.”

“Wrynn is not the solution to this! Don’t be preposterous.”

“I’m not talking about Wrynn.”

Nathanos stopped dead in his tracks. Wide eyed. Waiting, for what felt like an eternity, for some sort of punchline. When none was delivered, he shook his head. “ _ I _ am no King.”

“You could be.” Lillian pursued his efforts to escape her. Nathanos’ growl did nothing to frighten her off. “Free will is the pillar on which the Forsaken were built. What if our will is you instead of her?”

“Free will,” he started down the stairs leading down into the inner wall, “is not the same as the ability to elect our own leader. Do you realize that your words could be considered treason? That this nonsense of yours could well end with both of our heads on a chopping block!”

“It isn’t nonsense, Nathanos.”

“It certainly isn’t safe!”

“It’s a rare thing that actually matters that can be described as such.”

“You’ve lost your mind!”

“No.” The woman used her slighter frame and agility to dart in front of him despite the narrow staircase. Forcing Nathanos to stop or trample her underfoot. “But she has.”

“I can’t agree with that!”

“But you can’t disagree either. Not anymore.” His efforts to step around her were summarily thwarted. “I know you, Nathanos. I know that you, at least, care about us! About our well being and our future!”

“Don’t ask me to betray my Queen!” He closed what paltry distance was left between them, putting them chest to chest. His glaring eyes and three feet of height on her did nothing to cow the Rogue. Nor did his not inconsiderable bulk.

“I’m asking you to protect your people. To shelter them from the things in this world which would use them. Or hurt them. Like you swore to.”

“Get out of my way!” Low, dark and deadly calm. At last, Lillian seemed to realize that she might have gone too far. Pressing her narrow frame flush against the wall to let him push his way passed. He didn’t speak to her again on his way down. She didn’t try to follow him.

The sun beat down upon the city from directly overhead, reducing the dry air to a haze of off-white which coated his tongue and throat unpleasantly but did nothing to reduce the traffic crowding the streets. Orcish guards. Goblin merchants. A Blood Elf atop an obscenely large mammoth, using its girth to block the mailbox outside of the auction house. Nathanos’ arrival was treated to no particular regard by the Dreadguards stationed outside the Hold, staring out through their barbutes almost sightlessly.

He slipped past them and stepped into the shadows beyond the doorway. Moving further into the Hold, trying to ignore the way the ping of his boots against the metal shod floor rattled his nerves. Sylvanas lounged against the high back of the Warchief’s throne, draped in wolf’s fur and sized for an Orc. Her hood was pulled down, freeing her tapering blue tinged ears to the gloom and allowing her long platinum hair to spill down the narrow pane of her back. Her crimson eyes seemed to sear holes in his armor as he came to a stop before her. Delivering a faint bow.

“My Lady.”

“Finished meddling with the children, Blightcaller?” there was a sharpness to her voice which left him off balance. Nathanos did his utmost not to let it show. “There’s adult business which I need seen done. Can I trust it in your hands, my Champion?”

The notion she would ever wonder such a thing felt like a slap to the face. “Have I ever failed you, my Queen?”

“You’ve begun to question me.”

Once, it wouldn’t have posed as a sore point between them. In life, she’d been happy to lay out her plans for him in full, time and again, and address his every individual concern. Years ago, in death, before the Lich King’s fall, it might have annoyed her if he asked the same thing too many times but she’d still explain until he was satisfied that he knew how best to serve her will, and their people. What had changed? “Forgive me.” Nathanos sank to one knee. Holding his hands out towards her as might a Priest to the God they worshiped. “I don’t doubt you.” Did he? “You will always be my Queen.”

The truth in that much made his unbeating heart ache.

Sylvanas stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Stopping only once she was close enough to touch. But Nathanos didn’t dare to move. And so he waited. Waited while the Banshee Queen took him in. Her hand slowly rose as if to take his, to relieve him, forgive whatever slight he’d unintentionally given, only for her to pull away at the last moment. A cruel smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to the throne.

“The Little Lion has stolen something that belongs to me. Something which will turn the tide of this war. In favor of the Horde.” She collapsed, ever graceful, back onto her imperious perch. “Retrieve it for me, Nathanos. And do be quick about it. You’ll find your...team at the  _ Broken Tusk _ . And Bloodwing in the proper stable.” 

So his bat, at least, had survived. Regrettably, he couldn’t say the same about his hounds. “I’ll see it done.” Recognizing the unvoiced dismissal, the Blightcaller drew himself stiffly back to his feet and took his leave.

The heat hadn’t lessened. Neither had the density of idiots blocking his path. Nathanos barreled through the crowds without a care for who he trampled, silencing those who dared voice anything close to a complaint with a razor sharp glare. Mounting the steps of the squat, spiked Orcish inn at long last and throwing aside the hide which hung over the opening in a poor excuse for a door.

Three figures were already waiting for him, and all looked up when he entered: Rokhan, one of the former Warchief’s most able Shadowhunters, the Nightborne’s First Arcanist, Thalyssra, and…

“Of course you’d managed to stick your nose into this, Voss.”

The Rogue’s grin showed off every one of her cracked and yellow teeth. “Someone has to watch your ass.”

The Dark Ranger Lord could feel one of the small muscles in his face-normally too unimportant to bother trying to name or take notice of-start to spasm and knew, without need for a mirror, that his left eye had begun to twitch. “You and I both know you’re not in the least into men.”

“Can still appreciate your ass.” Lillian’s tone was dead pan and matter of fact. “Platonically, of course. You’re practically my brother, after all.”

“Stop  _ talking _ , Mon!” Rokhan’s voice was a few pitches higher in register than he’d known Trolls to be capable of. Nathanos raised an eyebrow. “Ya just be makin it worse!”

Thalyssra had a hand pressed to her mouth and nose, her face screwed up beneath it into a rictus of effort. Though whether the Nightborne was holding in laughter or vomit he couldn’t tell. “You look like you need to take a shit, First Arcanist.”

Lillian couldn’t contain a snort as the Elf lowered her hand and looked at him in long suffering disbelief. “I can already tell this mission is going to go over like a hole in the head.” She said. “Shall we get started?”


	3. From Beneath the Lion's Paws

Bloodwing, admittedly, had never been the most pleasant or affectionate mount. Had attempted to eat his hands on a number of occasions. But even the shaggy red-winged bat, no doubt largely on account of what had happened, appeared uncharacteristically pleased to see him and chittered at his entrance to the stables. Dropping from its perch onto the hay-strewn floor with a heavy thud and crawling to the door of the empty Worg stall the Orcs had penned it in, sticking its head over the door.

“Hello, menace.” The Blightcaller grumbled in Gutterspeak. Seizing a dead rabbit, freshly killed and still dripping with blood, from a basket left beside the stable door and holding it out towards the bat. Poised to pull his hand away if need be. “We’ve business to attend to on the Dark Lady’s behalf. Finish quickly.”

The animal sized up the rabbit with its red eyes, alongside his arm, then revealed its massive teeth. Carefully taking the morsel, for once without attempting to bite him in the process, and tearing into it. Reducing the rodent to a smear of gore and matted fur against the ground within a few moments. Nathanos watched Lillian lead her own bat, Sharptooth, from its stall as he pulled a set of reins down from the wall.

“I should probably warn you now,” she said as he pushed open the latch of his mount’s stall. Bloodwing shrieked and scrambled out, balanced on the long talons of its wings. “We’ve also been dispatched with Skyhorn.”

“Eagles.” Filthy, disgusting feathered rats. Nathanos’ fingers twitched as he tightened the buckles on the saddle straps. “Marvelous.”

“Are you ever going to tell me when it was, exactly, that you got so badly beaten up by a pigeon that it left you forever traumatized?” 

His snarl pulled a tomb-dry laugh from his companion. “They’re disgusting, disease ridden, evil little cretins who steal crops and have a particular penchant for eating eyes!” He snapped. “I hated them when I lived because they were a worthless terror undeterred by even the wickedest scarecrow! And I hate them now because, as I said, the damned things  _ eat eyes _ !” Dark feathers. Screeching cries. Beady, soulless gazes centered in on him as they descended from on high like avenging furies. And the damnable cawing! The mere thought was enough to make him want to tear out his hair. “I’d rather kiss Greymane!”

“That’s one image I didn’t need.” Lillian snorted. “Then again, it’s actually kind of hot.”

Nathanos made a disgusted noise. “I hadn’t thought you so depraved as to pair your friend and superior officer with an  _ animal _ .”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” The massive bat finally had its saddle in the proper place. They could leave the stable at last and, with it, this bizarre topic of conversation. “I pair you with someone else. And they’re  _ definitely  _ not an animal.”

He didn’t want to know. He wasn’t curious in the least. He absolutely wasn’t going to ask. “Alright, Voss.” Entirely against his better judgement, clutching Bloodwing’s reins in one hand, Nathanos turned to face her. “I’ll bite.”

“Wrynn.” Another disgusted noise. A Worgen was bad enough, but a  _ Light wielder _ ? “‘Uck’ at me all you like, Nathanos, you weren’t there when his helmet got knocked off. I know you have it bad for blondes.”

“Just because my track record is blonde with blue eyes doesn’t turn everything fitting that description into dog treats, imbecile!” Nathanos turned and dragged Bloodwing out with him, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Lillian’s last comment about just what kind of ‘dog treat’ Wrynn was.

Honestly, he needed friends with better taste.

Nathanos wound the soft leather around his hands and swung himself up onto his mount’s back. Driving his heels into the bat’s ribs to push it into the sky, followed by Sharptooth not long after. The pair glided across the Orcish city’s rooftops with only the rhythmic thud of leathered wings and soft chittering to mark their passage. Banking left over the towering wall and descending towards the harbor. Coming to land atop the decks of  _ The Banshee’s Wail. _

Lassan Skyhorn, surrounded by a couple dozen of the winged fiends, stood atop the highest deck; one scorching disgust-filled glare served well enough to keep him there. Rokhan and Thalyssra had arrived before them, a pair of wyverns at their side, and stepped forward as the two undead dismounted. Leaving their bats to flutter up among the torn purple sails to roost.

“We seek a Prophet and a Princess, held captive in the depths of Stormwind’s Stockade. Our mission is to sneak in, free them from their captivity and escape back to Orgrimmar. We’re to do whatever we must to ensure that our Warchief’s will is done.” Nathanos’ scarlet eyes shifted between the three before he spoke again. “In the interest of accomplishing that, I have something for each of you.” He reached into his coat and pulled four vials of white powder from an inner pocket. Holding them out. “Take one. All of you.  _ Don’t _ drink it, just yet.”

An easy death. Swift, so much so that no antidote could be given, and mostly painless. A mixture of toxins he’d assembled personally from what supplies he had left on him. Lillian, Nathanos knew, was aware of what was in the vial she’d just tucked away in her belt; no Rogue worth their salt wouldn’t recognize such a thing. From the grim look Thalyssra gave him, and the open suspicion he was treated to by Rokhan, both of them at least suspected something. 

Nathanos turned towards the ship’s cabin. “I’ll speak to Tattersail. We’ll be on our way soon. The journey to the Alliance’s capital will take just over a week: put your affairs in order in the meanwhile and be prepared for anything. I won’t stand for having dunderheads and mountain troggs at my back in the midst of hostile territory!”

The Dark Ranger Lord didn’t linger long enough to catch whatever response might have been given. Sweeping away across the decks and mounting a set of stairs. Ducking through a doorway that he found at the top. Tattersail was seated behind a desk strewn with maps and pins.

“Ranger Lord!”

The woman leapt to her feet as he approached and, when the leg of the heavy chair at her back caught against a raised floorboard, would have fallen had Nathanos not propped her up. Fingers closing around her narrow arm. “At ease, Captain. I’ve never cared for formality among family.” And that’s what the Forsaken were. Younger siblings. His children, in some respects. “The crew is prepared to shove off for Stormwind?”

“At any time.” She watched him circle the table, scanning the pins scattered across the map like ruby droplets. “As soon as your team has assembled.”

“They’ve assembled. Admittedly, Voss and I were the last to arrive. Draw up anchor, if you would?” The handwriting on the map had faded in places. Most noticeably along the curving tail of the g in Eastern Kingdoms. Idly, he wondered just how old the map was. “Victory for Sylvanas.”

The Captain acknowledged his words with a nod. “Dark Lady watch over you.”

Alone in the Captain’s quarters, Nathanos continued his perusal. Sinking down into the chair Tattersail had occupied only a handful of moments before. Careful fingers curling around the crumbled edges of the parchment and lifting it from the table top.  _ Undercity _ was emblazoned in the middle of Tirisfal Glades with golden letters.

Already, that night he’d stood atop its walls seemed as distant as his stolen human life. Another age. Another era. An era which had ended in golden armor and Blight.

_ Wrynn. _ Unbidden, the brief glimpse of gunmetal eyes-a shade darker than hers had been, once-through the slots of a helm flashed across his memory. He could still see the edges of where the embossed golden mane had been fused to the silver contours of the lion’s face; curving and curling outwards like filigree to form the image of the King of beasts. Nathanos dropped the map in disgust at the turn of his thoughts and stormed from the room, the tails of his overcoat flapping as he went.  _ We’re coming, Little Lion. _

Darkness had fallen close to an hour before with the retreat of the sun behind the stone walls lining the coast of the Eastern Kingdoms. The cool salt tinged air rippled the sails overhead as Nathanos stood atop the highest deck, leaning his weight against the railing. Looking down into the dark water.

“You seem on edge, Blightcaller.” The helm of  _ The Banshee’s Wail _ rattled in Tattersail’s boney fingers as it turned. Adjusting the position of the rutter and, in turn, their trajectory towards Stormwind.

The Dark Ranger Lord’s pointed gloves scraped along the wet wood. “We sail into the Lion’s jaws. You’re as aware of that as I am.”

“Thankfully, they’re not aware we’re here.” The wheel clicked twice to the right as they skirted the shin of a towering cliff face. “Stop acting like Wrynn is going to pop out of the water riding a Kraken to take us to the depths! You’re making me nervous.”

Nathanos huffed and turned from the water. Leaning back against the railing instead. Crossing his arms. Hyper aware of the way the wood dug into his lower back. “We’re almost to our destination?”

“A handful more minutes and we’ll be dropping anchor.” She said. “You’ll have to fly the rest of the way to reach the city, lest those Human Cutters catch sight of me.”

“Stand by, Captain.” In spite of his ever mounting nerves, Nathanos couldn’t keep an approving tone from his voice. “We’ll have a way out without a need for you to risk yourself or this ship, if our intelligence is correct. The Alliance have kept a grasp on the ship they captured; it will serve us now as a means to flee with our prize back to our Lady’s side.”

“What manner of ship am I to be looking for?”

Nathanos had never seen one of the massive gilded Zandalari ships himself, but had heard plentiful tell of them from those who’d fought the Thunder King in Pandaria. “Something tells me you won’t miss it.”

Tattersail hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. Reaching over to ring the barnacle crusted bell beside her and sending the crew scrambling for the anchor. Nathanos descended to the lower deck, intercepting the rest of his party as they came up from within the cabins below. 

“Get your mounts; fly low. We head for their Stockade.” Calling Bloodwing down from the mast, Nathanos settled himself on the bat’s back and swooped out over the water. The cold wet air a physical presence as it brushed over his cheeks. Guiding his mount into a holding pattern just clear of the top sails as he waited for the others to join him. They came slowly: first Lillian, atop Sharptooth. Then Lassan on the back of his feathered monstrosity. Then, at last, the wyverns ridden by Thalyssra and Rokhan.

“I expect the lot of you to listen  _ closely _ . I will  _ not _ be repeating myself! Not in the least because we don’t have that kind of time!” Nathanos all but had to shout to be heard over the cacophony of flapping wings as they swooped off towards the city. “The three of you will be with me; we’ll infiltrate their prison and extract the prisoners: our scouts have located a hidden entrance which will serve us well.” It was certainly easier to access than the main one in the middle of the city. Though it wouldn’t lead as directly to their targets as he would have liked. “The Tauren will cover our escape and, once we’ve emerged from the prison, I will join him.” The harbor was in sight now. The massive dry dock where the Alliance stored their armored ice breakers, and the griffin bowed ships themselves, loomed from the fog like phantoms. “I’ve supplied each of you with an easy death. If you run out of options, use it.”

Nathanos had to admit, as they adjusted their trajectory to remain above water as long as possible, that the lack of objection came as something of a surprise. Somewhere off among the hostile streets, a bell tolled the hour. Through the darkness, denoted first by its scarlet sail and then by the great golden head atop its front, the Zandalari ship came into view.

_ So the reports were correct. _ A relief. “There’s our way out! Once the prisoners have been freed, get to that ship.” He said. “We'll reconvene with Tattersail and head for Orgrimmar from there.”

The Troll vessel fell away behind them, vanishing into the hanging pall of icy white as if it had never been. What next appeared before them, and then disappeared behind, was the furthest dock of the harbor occupied only by a scorched pair of Elven glaive throwers. And then they were over the city itself. Swooping so low above Lion’s Rest, over the statues standing guard along the fountain, that Nathanos could have reached out to touch them if he’d wanted.

“Descend here!” A barked command, given with all the volume that he dared. The others all looked at him as if he’d lost his mind but followed Bloodwing as he urged the bat to ground. His heavy boots sloshing in the cold shallow water as he dismounted. Brushing river rushes and tangled lily pads aside to unveil a wooden hatch, secured with cast iron padlocks. “How predictable. I doubt they’re Shaw’s work.” More likely some idiot warden without a care for how simple such measures were to overcome. “What ‘high security’. Lillian.”

“Way ahead of you.” The first look gave way with a soft metallic click. The Rogue wasted no time in inserting the lock picking rake into the second, which yielded similarly and was tossed into the shallow water. The wooden hatch let out a piercing creak which made him wince and look around as it was wrenched open.

“Let us move quickly.” Weapon drawn, but lowered, Nathanos led the way down the forgotten flight of steps which met them. The short passage, claustrophobic and nearly pitch dark in the absence of torch light, spitting them out into a tiny room.

Practically on top of a pair of 7th Legion.

Nathanos brought up his bow and fired before either could react. His arrow struck the armed enforcer dead center of the chest. A bolt of arcane fire flying over his shoulder to send the dwarven sharpshooter after.

“We’ve got da 7th Legion here.” Came Rokhan’s ever so helpful observation. Nathanos resisted the urge to turn around and slap him. “Da humans not be takin chances with who we’ve been sent ta break out.”

“Go and scout ahead, ‘Shadowhunter’. Find the cell we’re looking for.” Nathanos growled. “We’ll clear the hall behind you.” As he watched the Troll slip into the shadows, after a moment’s pause, he looked down at Lillian. “Go with him, Voss.”

An instant later, the Rogue was gone.

“That leaves us to draw their attention then, Blightcaller?”

“Stick close, Elf.” He shouldered passed her, out into the hall.

A black figure was on him an instant later. The curved blade in their hand met the arm of his bow with a dull thunk. The wide white eyes of a Night Elf coming just inches from his face.

Nathanos snarled and shoved the Kaldorei off him. Sending the woman stumbling back, struggling to regain her balance. He didn’t give her the chance, drawing his axes as he lunged forward and burying the blades in her chest.

Two more 7th Legion were running towards them down the hall. Hoarse shouts of alarmed Common ringing off the stones. He didn’t have the time to determine their race before they were blown away by a pulse of Arcane magic.

“Blightcaller, keep moving!” Nathanos bit back a retort as he wrenched his weapons free. Breaking into a run to keep up with the Nightborne who’d slipped passed him. “Over here! I see Rokhan ahead!”

And, indeed, the Troll was standing not far ahead of them. Outside a heavy cell door. Beneath the glow of a single torch. He turned to look at them as they slowed, tusks glinting in the flickering light.

“That was quick!” He snapped. “Where’s Voss?”

“She went on ahead. Ta find da other cell.”

The Dark Ranger Lord’s eyes narrowed. “Other cell?”

The Troll simply gestured at the door. “See for yaself, Blightcaller.”

With a last heated glare at the Shadowhunter, just for good measure, Nathanos stepped up to the door. Gripping onto one of the bars and squinting into the dark. A cot. An upturned chamber pot dented on one side as if it had been thrown against one of the walls. And then “Saurfang!” The old Orc stared balefully out at him from the shadows, heavy brow drawn down over his eyes. “You’re alive.”

“For all that such a thing would matter to you. Or to your ‘Banshee Queen’. I’m not going back to her Horde. Not after what she’s done.” Green fumes.Crumbling stone. Everything they’d left behind swallowed by the earth. Nathanos was dragged back from the memories of the Undercity’s demise when the Orc spoke again. “Though I doubt it's me you’re here for judging by your surprise.”

“We didn’t come for you, no. And by your own admission we won’t leave with you either.” Nathanos turned away. “Let’s move on. We’ve a mission to see through and every moment spent here is a moment the little King’s simpering fools might find us.”

“You gave me advice, up on that wall.” Alongside the noise of their footsteps Saurfang’s voice chased him down the dingy prison hallways, “allow me to return the favor. Make sure you know the difference between loyalty to her and loyalty to your people. And pray you never have to choose.”

Nathanos grit his teeth and sped his pace. The other two exchanged a look but said nothing.

“Blightcaller! Over here!” His eyes snapped up. Landing on her familiar form, huddled in the shadows of a non-descript doorway, just to their left. “I think I’ve found our objective.”

Nathanos acknowledged this with a grunt as he stepped past her. Pitiless red gaze landing on the occupants of the cell inside: a pacing Zandalari woman and a calmly waiting older man. “Well done, Lillian. You’ve found them indeed.”

“Just as I said, Princess.” The older Troll got stiffly to his feet; Nathanos could hear his joints creak from across the room. “Our escort arrives.”

The woman stopped abruptly, sending the other Troll an impressive evil eye before shifting her attention to them. “My Prophet claims dat you are allies. If dat is truly the case, release us from dis cage.”

Lillian didn’t need him to ask and stepped up to the lock. Producing the same tool from before and freeing the latch, allowing the door to swing open and the two Trolls to step free.

“You and ya Queen must be going mad, Blightcaller!” Rokhan pointed an accusing finger at the old Zandalari. “Dis be dat snake dat-.”

Nathanos’s raised hand, or perhaps more accurately his death glare, silenced the Shadowhunter mid-speech. “ _ Never _ let me hear you speak ill of your Warchief again, Troll!” He snarled. “It is the Banshee Queen’s desire they be released from Wrynn’s grip and I  _ will _ see that desire fulfilled. If you’ve a problem with that much, Saurfang will likely be willing to share his cage. If not, I’m sure the 7th Legion can prepare a room for you.”

“Our...leader can be a bit off putting. Especially when you first encounter him.” The Nightborne ignored his hiss and kept talking. “I am Thalyssra. This is Rokhan. We come on behalf of the Horde.”

“Greetings will have to wait.” The Prophet said.

“Nathanos!”

“I know, Voss.” He turned towards the door, hackles rising. “I feel it too. First Arcanist, get us back onto those streets! Now!” The Nightborne made no attempt to argue, but when she called the Arcane to her fingers the purple light fizzled out with no affect. “ _ Thalyssra! _ ”

“I can’t cast! It’s a nullification field!”

Nathanos cursed openly. Rokhan growled and pulled what looked like some sort of fetish from his belt. “Follow me!”

They bolted back through the door and down the hall outside only to find both ends obscured by Arcane walls. More gathered soldiers waiting just behind them. Dozens. Too many for them to take with such small numbers.

“We’re trapped!” How utterly undignified for a hunter to end up as prey!

“Which way do we go?” The Princess demanded.

Rokhan pointed at one wall. “Dis way!” Only for the Prophet to pipe up “dat would be a mistake. It is de other way.”

Nathanos could see no difference between the two. “ _ Bloody pick one!” _

Over his snarl and calling the Light to her hands, the Princess said “you’d best be right, Zul!” Whatever magic she’d cast shattered the barrier. Nathanos felt a faint burning sensation linger on his skin. They didn’t bother fighting the battle mage on the wall’s other side and simply bowled her over in their haste. Bolting down the seemingly endless hallway they found at the bottom of a set of stairs.

“The sewers! Into the sewers!” Nathanos wrenched open a grated gate and leapt down. Landing knee deep in brackish water and barreling outwards. Hearing the splashes which followed as the others dropped down as well.

He emerged from the sewers at the base of the keep’s hulking stone walls. Slipping between two bars just large enough to fit him, the Dark Ranger Lord straightened up and froze.

Standing there, equally stunned and without accompaniment by his guards, close enough that he could reach out and touch him if he’d wanted to, was Anduin Wrynn. The Priest-could he still be called a Priest when he wore plate-was dressed in partial armor; the silver and golden breastplate, embossed with the lion of House Wrynn, melded with the trailing tails of a long overcoat of deep azure. His expressive face had been pulled back into a mask of alarm, and his long golden hair was tied into a smooth tail that rested over his shoulder.

Dark Lady’s grace, he had the High King of the Alliance close enough that he could have reached out and snapped his neck had he wanted yet all he could call to mind was that he was covered in sewage and that Wrynn’s eyes were very blue. The Human royal regained his wits before he could process where such thoughts had come from, let alone try to shake them off. The Blightcaller saw him take a breath as if to scream and grabbed the man to stop him. Covering his mouth with one hand and using his free arm to deliver a stiff shove.

The next thing he knew the youth had lost his balance, tripped over the side of the canal and fallen into the water with a squeak and a splash.

“Did you just push the High King of the Alliance into his own city’s canals?” Thalyssra demanded around a half unwilling laugh.

“Yes!” Nathanos almost couldn’t believe it himself. Tripping slightly over his boots as he started moving again. Painfully aware that the plan was in tatters. “Run! Get to the docks!”

“But da-!”

“ _ Forget about subtlety, run!” _

Despite the extra weight of his armor, the Young Lion had managed to swim over to the staircase leading up from the canal. Locks of his dripping hair escaping their tail and plastering themselves to his face. In that fleeting glimpse of him, sopping and indignant, Nathanos couldn’t help but think that Anduin Wrynn looked like an irritated kitten left out in the rain.

With no choice but to follow or be left behind, the other five took off running after him. Trampling any guards or criers who tried to get in their way. Leaping from the wall into Lion’s rest, and then down again into the docks. The clatter of sun worn, salt scoured planks underfoot punctuating the wail of the city’s alarms.

“Come!” The Princess rushed across the boarding plank and onto the decks of what had likely been her personal ship before the humans had taken it. “We set sail for Zuldazar.”

“I think not!” Nathanos snapped. “I have orders to return you to the Warchief directly!”

“Seeing as how dis is  _ my _ ship, I think you and your Warchief will have to adjust those plans.”

The Dark Ranger Lord showed his teeth, drawing himself up to his full height and puffing out his chest, but was stopped from responding by Zul’s call of “Wrynn’s witch and the old dog are coming! We don’t have time for your argument!”

His red gaze snapped back down the dock, towards the harbor. Catching sight of Proudmoore, Greymane, and what looked like the entire city guard closing in. “Fine!” He snapped, rounding on Talanji. “We sail for Zuldazar.  _ Get us out of here!” _

“With pleasure.” The Zandalari Princess took hold of the wheel.


	4. Speaker for the Horde

The Stormwind fleet had caught up with them not long after they’d reconvened with  _ The Banshee’s Wail  _ and kept on their tail for the majority of the five days it had been since they’d escaped from the Human capital, though never within range of cannon fire. Now, mid-way through their sixth day at sea, the Blightcaller hadn’t seen signs of another ship since the last setting of the sun despite his near constant vigil. Balanced atop the railing, gripping onto one of the sailing ropes to keep himself there, he swept his gaze once more across the sapphire waves. Trying in vain to dispel the memory of Anduin’s eyes: behind his lion helm; wide with surprise as he stood within arm’s reach; narrowed in half-embarrassed indignance after being pitched into the canal. Sensing a presence behind him, Nathanos turned his head. “It would seem that the Alliance dogs have lost out scent.”

Zul, as he’d learned was the name of the Zandalari Prophet they’d rescued from the Stockades, seemed pleased to hear as much. “Good. Good. We’re almost at our destination and it wouldn’t do to bring dem ta harbor with us. Hardly a good impression for you.”

Hardly a good first impression indeed. Nathanos grunted.

“It seems dat your Warchief is strong. Powerful. Sure of herself.” His fangs glinted in the sunlight, almost a threat behind the sweep of his tusks. Nathanos’ old wariness of Trolls, borne from decades spent hunting and fighting the Amani in what was now the Ghost Lands, began to resurface. He narrowed his eyes. “Would you say dat my observations are correct?”

The Blightcaller struggled to find ill intention buried in the line of conversation, but couldn’t. “It is a pleasure to serve my Queen.”

Whatever thoughts the Zandalari might have had surrounding his response, he didn’t let them show. Directing his own white gaze over the ocean. “Our King finds much trouble in those same traits, in our Princess. At times, Rastakhan finds her difficult to control.”

“Where is Talanji?” They’d gone through so much trouble to recover the pair of them. Sylvanas was expecting her prize in one piece. The very last thing he needed was for one of the two to get themselves killed on his watch. 

“Below deck. Communing with her Loa.”

Loa. Animal spirits whom the savages revered as Gods. “Which one?” he made a paltry effort to keep derision from his voice. “Zanza? Hir’eek?”

“Rezan.” That was one name he’d never heard before. “The Loa of Kings and Queens. To be bestowed his blessing is to be bestowed a crown. Or a crown rite.”

Ridiculous. Trolls and their damnable pagan nonsense! Nathanos didn’t get the chance to voice any sort of response to such claims before a distant bang, instantly recognizable as cannon fire, rolled across the water. The ball knocking the gilded head on the front of the ship free into the waves a moment later. “ _ What? _ ” Somehow, in the span of time they’d been distracted with their conversation, the Alliance fleet had not only returned but closed within firing range. A feat which Nathanos suspected they’d only achieved through sorcery. He swore as another cannon fired and the heavy iron projectile crashed through the deck. The craft rocked wildly from side to side and nearly flung him into the surf. “We need cover!” He bellowed over the din as Rokhan scrambled passed. “Head for that fog bank!”

Another cannon ball struck home, the mast letting out an ominous creak but, thankfully, not falling. Though the ship had begun to list to one side. 

“We’re takin on water! We’re gonna go down!”

_ “Idiot!”  _ Nathanos snarled.  _ “Do something!” _ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talanji emerge from below deck and, with a calm he felt to be entirely unjustified, began ascending the stairs towards the upper deck. “Talanji!” He couldn’t let her go up there and get blasted to hell. Sylvanas would skin him alive! Grumbling under his breath, he stumbled across the heaving deck after her. Making it up the stairs just in time to watch her cast a spell he didn’t recognize.

Behind them, something roared. Nathanos spun around in time to see a Devilsaur, made up of wind and sea foam, rise up from the water’s surface and lower its massive head. Lunging forwards into the back of the ship and sending it rocketing forwards. He stumbled. His chest collided, hard, with the railing. More out of reflex than a need to breathe he coughed and raised his head.

Only to find himself face to face with the beast. His own reflection gazing back at him from the depths of a single massive eye. “I see you, Banshee Prince.” It vanished abruptly, alongside the parting fog. An entire fleet of Zandalari ships, spanning from one end of the horizon to the other, appearing in its place. Unleashing a hail of burning ballista which crashed down on the Alliance vessels. Sinking all but one which promptly turned tail and fled.

Talanji turned to face him. Meeting his look of bewildered alarm with a sharp smile. “We are home, Blightcaller. Welcome to Zandalar.” The towering, verdant mountains of the ancient island loomed large in their path. The warfleet made no move to impede the Princess’ flagging ship or _ The Banshee’s Wail _ which shadowed it, having sustained a bit of damage itself. The rhythmic slap of water against the hull was punctuated by the cries of what he’d first thought were gulls until a Pterrodax swooped low over the mast. “My father will want to speak with you once we arrive. In fact, it may be best dat we fly ahead to see him.”

Straightening his coat, Nathanos nodded. “Very well. Rokhan’s wyvern will take you.” Sharing his forefinger and thumb between his teeth and whistled Bloodwing to his side. Pushing off from the deck once certain Talanji was securely in the wyvern’s saddle.

“You left your Prophet behind to sail in with the rest.” He said once they were well above the decks. “There’s something you didn’t want him to overhear.”

The Zandalari looked over at him appraisingly. “I can see why your Warchief selected you as her right hand. You are perceptive, Blightcaller.” She said. “I do not trust Zul. His advisory leads my father down a foolish path. Urges him to turn his back on wounds dat fester. Dere is instability here and it threatens the very foundations of our empire.”

“And yet, instead of remaining here, you went asea.” He said. “Why?”

“Because,” Talanji said, “I was looking for da Horde.”

“You’ve found them, Princess. And you’ll find we need your help as badly as you believe that you need ours.”

The Princess’ only response to that much as a grim nod. “My father is a proud man, Nathanos. And set in his ways.” She said. “Let me do da talking. With any luck, he  _ won’t  _ throw you off da pyramid.”

Considering how large the pyramid in question was-rapidly becoming larger still as they swept over the docks-being thrown from the top would be enough to kill even one of the undead. “Seeing as I’m not able to fly, I’ll follow that advice. For now.”

They could see the top of the pyramid now: an open air throne room, overlooking the city and the forest and the sea. A troll in a headdress whom he assumed to be the King rose from atop the throne as they landed.

“Talanji!”

“Father!” 

Beside the throne, next to the guards whom Nathanos had little interest in, stood a Troll woman clad in purple garb. She glared at him. He gazed back dispassionately, paying the conversation between the Zandalari royals only enough attention to pick up on his que.

“So you are da Speaker for da Horde, den?”

Speaker for the Horde? If that was what they wanted to call him, and if that would aid him in courting the Zandalari navy into doing what his Queen wanted then he’d suffer baring such a title. Nathanos folded his hands behind his back. “I am the Warchief’s Champion, and the Commanding Officer of the force which rescued your daughter, so I assume that title applies to me well enough. 

Rastakhan considered Nathanos for a long moment and, for an instant, the Blightcaller worried he really would be tossed off the pyramid. Then he smiled around his tusks. “Walk with me, ‘Champion of da Warchief’. Let us speak.” Nathanos’ only response was to turn and follow the King as he walked towards the overlook. “It is our navy dat has drawn you here, is it not? In da hopes of victory in your war against da Alliance?”

He gave the Troll a brief side eye, then sighed. “Our people only desire a place in this world. But they will never let us rest.” Nathanos said. “The war has only gotten worse and we are in desperate need of aid.”

“Such honesty takes courage. As did rescuing my daughter. And walking into da heart of my city alone while unsure of your reception. A trait dat I admire.” The Zandalari laughed. “I am not as blind as Talanji fears. I am not ignorant of our true enemies. So I will offer you a deal.”

A deal was something he could work with. “What deal?”

“You and your Horde may stay in da Great Seal as my guests. Let us see if you can prove your worth to Zandalar.”

“And if we do?” Nathanos asked.

“Den da Zandalari, and our navy, will place our might beneath your banner.” The Troll King extended a large three fingered hand which Nathanos didn’t hesitate to take. “Da eyes of my Kingdom rest on you, Blightcaller. I’d advise dat you remember dat much while you’re here.” He said. “Speak with Zolani. She will show you around.”

Nathanos assumed that ‘Zolani’ was the royal guard-a Troll woman, he thought, though it was difficult to tell underneath all of the teeth and golden armor they wore-who’d moved from beside the throne to stand at the top of a staircase to their right. “Thank you, Rastakhan.” He couldn’t keep a drawling tone from his voice. Failing to return the Princess’ nod, he approached the stairs.

His assumption proved correct when the woman grunted “come, I will show you da fastest way down.” Nathanos didn’t bother to respond and followed on Zolani’s heels down the side of the pyramid. Ending up on the platform just below the royal pinnacle. “Dis is da Great Seal, where you and your Horde will be given rooms to stay. You may contact dem to come, now, if you’ve a means of doing so.”

“I could hardly call myself a hunter if I didn’t have the necessary materials to create a flare on my person.” Nathanos pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back.  _ Never mind a damned Ranger Lord. _ He wrapped the head in a stretch of linen, soaked it in the contents of another vial taken from the inner pockets of his coat, and struck it alight against the back of his mail glove. Firing the brightly burning arrow straight up and watching it leave a thin trail of smoke against the pale blue jungle sky.

A bat, an eagle and a wyvern spiraled upwards from the dock. Rapidly growing closer until he could make out their riders: Lillian, blades conspicuously at the ready; Lassan, the Highmountain’s carved moose antlers glinting in the sun; and Rokhan, riding double saddle with Thalyssra atop the Nightborne’s wyvern.

“What you see before you is the Great Seal. Our...gracious hosts have granted us permission to form an embassy, of sorts, here.” He said. “This Zandalari Kingsgaurd will show us around. Don’t go astray.” If Zolani was bothered by his concerted effort not to address her by name, she didn’t show it and turned towards the Great Seal’s open door. Switching to Gutterspeak, keeping a view of both the guard and the other three in the corner of his vision, Nathanos addressed Lillian. “Where is that Prophet?”

The Rogue had the good sense not to say the Troll’s name. “We left him with the withered sand Troll lackey who calls himself a general. Jakra’zet.” She said. “Why?”

“The Princess is suspicious and her words have made me begin to have doubts as well. We’d be best served to keep an eye on them while we are here; something is going on here and to win these Trolls as our allies we’re going to have to get to the bottom of it.”

“Da Great Seal is said to be one of da only things older than the Zandalari Empire.” Nathanos didn’t have much interest in history, or the overly ornate mural on the wall, but returned his attention to their surroundings nonetheless. “Da royal vaults, to our right, can arrange to safely store your valuables. Da room to da left houses a long out of use network of portals: if your...Elf is able to do so, you can connect dis place to da land you came from.”

“Thalyssra.”

“I’ll see to opening a portal to Orgrimmar, Blightcaller.” The First Arcanist had to duck to clear the threshold with her ears, disappearing into the shadows.

“Da rooms which you’re welcome to during your time here are dis way.” A great brazier of stone and gold, full of fire, crackled beside another set of red stone stairs. Their steps scuffed against them as they climbed and made their way down a half-hidden hallway. A handful of doors lined the walls, bordered in gold and gems foreign to him, draped in sumptuous hides in lieu of doors. When Nathanos moved to step through one, the Troll’s three ring-adorned fingers caught him by the shoulder. Lillian bristled. Rokhan took a cautious step away from her. Nathanos, for his part, merely turned his unforgiving red eyes on the guard. “Your room, Speaker, is at the end of the hall.”

The Blightcaller wrenched himself free of her grip. “Your assistance is no longer necessary. Return to your post. Let your King know that the Horde finds these lodgings acceptable.”

He glared until the Troll did as he said, leaving Nathanos alone with three of his four companions. Finally, the Tauren spoke. “What do we do now, Blightcaller?”

“The lot of you will do nothing; aid the Zandalari and  _ don’t _ pose a nuisance of yourselves.” Nathanos snapped. “I’ll be making a trip back to Orgrimmar once Thalyssra has that damned portal open to report what’s taken place to our Warchief. If additional orders are to be had, you’ll know when I return. In the meantime,” the raptor hide hung over the door, a venomous shade of green, snapped as he pushed it aside, “I’m going to concern myself with inspecting my quarters.”

The room on the other side was easily three times the size of his cabin aboard  _ The Banshee’s Wail _ where he’d expected to find himself staying during their time there. The bed was squat, paneled in dark wood and dressed with dark red sheets. The furniture was overly ornate to such a degree that it was tasteless. A square window, cut into the wall, provided fresh air and an impressive view of sky and jungle.

What Nathanos wouldn’t have given to instead be faced with familiar stone walls and bracketed torchlight.

Pulling the clasp from his throat, he tossed his rain-scaled cloak across the foot of the bed and crossed to the washbasin on the nearby table. Snagging the pitcher beside it and pouring the contents out. Cupping handfuls of it to his face, washing away the salt which had crusted in his beard during their extended time at sea.

Once satisfied by the presentability of his appearance, Nathanos dried his face on a nearby cloth and straightened the collar of his coat before leaving the room behind. Thalyssra had succeeded in opening the portal by the time he made it back, though from the way it winked and waivered ‘stable’ wouldn’t be the term anyone with eyes would choose to use for it.

“Is that usable?”

“Useable, most definitely.” She said. “Advisable to actually pass through? Not for another hour, I think.”

Nathanos made a low grumbling noise in the back of his throat. “Good enough.” He didn’t have the time to waste in reporting to his Queen; they should have been back days ago! Without giving the First Arcanist the chance to attempt to dissuade him, if she was even of a mind to, he swept through the portal. Not the most pleasant experience with an arcane gateway he’d ever had, a lot more like being forced through a very narrow pipe than anything else,but he considered it a victory that he emerged in the Pathfinder’s Den without a notable lack of limbs

The Blightcaller made his way through the city’s streets so quickly that he didn’t take in any of the sights around him. Sylvanas’ gaze, when it fell on him, betrayed nothing.

“I take it you have a good explanation for your absence?”

“The plan, my Queen, went mildly arry. We were pursued by the Alliance; cut off from return to Kalimdor.” Nathanos bent at the waist into a deep bow in the hopes it might convey a margin of his regret for failing her. Even in such a small capacity. “We dropped anchor in Zandalar today.”

The Banshee Queen perked up. Taloned fingers curling around the arm of the throne as she leaned forward. “So you did find the Zandalari.”

“Yes, my Lady. Their Prophet and their Princess.” He said. “Talanji has confided in us of their need for aid; it seems some sort of plot brews beneath the surface of their empire. Their King has offered their navy in return for getting to the bottom of things. With your leave, I’ll take him up on it.”

“Do as you must, my Champion, to secure me that navy. Wrynn’s forces will be utterly defenseless against such power; it’s tantamount that you succeed.” Sylvanas leaned back, comfortably, in her chair. “Collect Bloodhoof before you return. Keep an eye on him.”

Remembering the Tauren Chieftain’s comment aboard  _ The Tempest’s Roar _ , Nathanos knew immediately what she meant. “I’ll set off for Thunder Bluff right away.” With another bow, just for good measure, the Blightcaller took his exit. Mentally cursing himself for not thinking to bring Bloodwing along as he made his way to the Flightmaster’s station.

The wyvern he was given was young and barely considerable as trained, but Nathanos kept a firm grip on the reigns and, aided by the relatively short distance of the flight, made it safely into Mulgore. The scattered windmills and hide-roofed buildings which made up the bridge-connected plateau city of the Tauren drawing ever closer beneath him. Nathanos ignored the hollowed out totem pole used by the Cowmen as an aviary and directed the Wyvern towards the High Chieftain’s dwelling. Landing at just short of a threatening distance from the Braves standing guard outside.

“ _ Bloodhoof!” _ His shout was followed by the approaching thud of hooves. A moment later Baine’s horned head, followed by the rest of him, appeared from within the house. “By the direct order of the Warchief you’re to come with me and report to Zandalar to aid the Horde’s war campaign. We’ve begun efforts to court the Zandalari to our cause and our efforts on that front require the additional input of a more...delicate touch than mine. Gather what you require for an extended stay.”

The Tauren’s look was baleful, but he didn’t argue. Gathering his own belongings and then mounting his personal wyvern. They made the journey back to Orgrimmar in charged silence.

The portal, at least, by the time they made it back to the Pathfinder’s Den, had fully stabilized. The Great Seal was lit solely by torch light and the flames of the braziers flanking the stairs, the sun having set well below the mountains. Painting the sky outside in black.

“Find Rokan, or one of the others. They’ll assist you from here.” Nathanos mounted the steps without missing a beat. The long tails of his heavy coat snapping at his back. “I have better things to do with my time than spend it babysitting you!”

Nathanos flung aside the hide door with a vindictive crack, his eyes flickering on reflex around the room as he entered. Darkness and stars outside his window. The cloak he’d peeled off earlier still flung across the bed. Anduin, lounging on the day couch like an Elven courtesan.

The Blightcaller spun around and fired. His arrow embedded itself in the back of the empty couch with a hollow thunk. There were no signs of pressure indentations left in the feather stuffed cushions. No signs of Wrynn, or another other Human, or any other  _ person _ in the room with him. Slowly, the Dark Ranger Lord relaxed with a sigh and went to retrieve his arrow. Bracing a hand against the wood to pull it free.  _ Just seeing things. _

**_Just seeing things._** The shadows mocked. The same heckling voice from up on the decks of _The Tempest’s Roar._ **_Oh, just seeing things._**

The events of the fall of the Undercity had left him traumatized. That or he was suffering from a bout of sudden onset brain rot. Yet, even still, Nathanos found himself disturbed and hurriedly peeled away his bow and quiver. His coat. His armor. Stripped to his leathers, the Blightcaller extinguished the torches and crawled atop the bed to wait for the return of the sun. Unable to shake the notion that the shadow standing in the far corner of his room belonged to the Young Lion.


	5. The Anchor's Sea

Thus far, and without abatement, the Blood War had been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster. First in the fallout of the Gathering and Calia’s untimely death. Then with the cataclysmic destruction of the World Tree which had left the remaining Kaldorei refugees in Stormwind though how long that would last before Tyrande broke off from the Alliance, after potentially making an effort to hang him from the top of the Keep by his hair, was a question the answer to which Anduin didn’t have. After that, though Jaina’s return had been a miracle, it had been the disastrous result of the Siege of Lordaeron. And then, the Horde had infiltrated his city and captured a pair of Zandalari being held prisoner within the stockades and escaped into the night while Anduin himself had been all but useless as far as lending his aid went.

Largely because the Banshee Queen’s Champion, in what amounted to little more than a slightly malicious-and only because of the plate he’d had on...and the sewer monster that he should probably have seen to-teenaged prank, had pushed him into the canal.

All things considered, the Priest supposed, soaking his socks, bruising his ego and leaving him with the faintest echo of a cold was the very least Nathanos Blightcaller could have done to him. Especially if the man was half as dangerous as Genn always made him out to be.

He jumped when a thin, familiar hand descended on his shoulder. Coming face to face with a sweet bun when he turned around. “There should be word back from the pursuing fleet today.” Said the bun, in Valeera’s voice. “You need to keep your strength up, and you need to take the warming drought again.”

“Are you my sister,” he grumbled as he took the bun, “or my mother, ‘Leera? I’ve lost track.”

The Rogue just shook her head. “Neither, Wrynn.” She said. “I’m your friend.”

“Which means yes?”

“Only as much as is necessary.” Valeera gracefully dropped onto the edge of his bed. “So?”

Anduin took a bite of the bun and raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“So, the Banshee Prince?”

That cleared up nothing.

“Don’t look at me all confused, Little Lion. You can claim all you want that your first thought was ‘oh shit’ when the Blightcaller popped out of the sewer like some demented jack in the box but I call Tauren shit.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you went into such  _ great _ detail about ‘eyes like embers, burning in the heart of a dead fire’ and ‘oh, his pale skin like ivory’ that  **_I_ ** think your  _ real _ first thought was ‘bend me over daddy’ -  **_ouch!_ ** ” Valeera sent him a look of near betrayal, a small dollop of cream flecking her cheek from where the bun had clipped her. “It’s not my fault that you have the taste in men of a horny gnoll.”

“You’re not helping your case, Valeera.” The cork came free of the warming drought’s neck with a hollow pop and he downed the contents. Wincing as the cinnamon and herbal liquid burned its way into his chest. “That’s not the sort of thing to joke about. Not in the least because there’s something to it.”

“On one hand, I suppose I can’t entirely blame you: everyone likes themselves a strong man. Well, maybe not Tess but I digress.” She waved a hand. “What is it? The beard? I have a soft spot for a bit of well kept facial hair and he certainly looks after himself. Now you’re looking at me like you’re a kobold and I just stole your candle.”

“My attraction to the literal right hand of the Horde’s genocidal Warchief is inconvenient enough without having to worry about competition from someone I consider family.” Not that it would really be competition, seeing as all signs pointed to Nathanos being into Elves. And woman. And that he was spoken for by one homicidal undead Elven woman in particular but that wasn’t important to his dangerous fantasies.

“Look at that. The Little Lion is jealous.”

“Not jealous-!”

“You  _ are _ !”

“I-!”

“Swear on the Light that you’re not jealous and maybe I’ll believe you.”

Anduin huffed. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Oh, come on. Now you’re acting like  **_I’m_ ** the one that pushed you into the canal.” Catching the expression on his face, her ears swiveled back. “I’m only teasing you. You know that, right?”

“Sure.” He turned his back. Lifting his blue and golden overcoat from the back of the chair where he’d thrown it and shoving an arm into the sleeve. He was prevented from progressing further in the process of putting it on by Valeera’s arms wrapping around him from behind.

“If he’s really what you want, really what you think will make you happy, and you can get him to return the feeling then fuck tradition. Fuck the House of Nobles. And bloody fuck whatever Genn might have to say about it because we both know that will be a debacle and a half. In fact, I’m sure Nathanos would happily provide me with a muzzle for him; he is a houndsman, after all.”

“Genn’s gotten better.”

“‘Better’ doesn’t mean ‘good’ though, does it?”

Anduin would have to concede that much. “Alright. You’re forgiven. Now release me so I can put on my coat. We’re going to be late for court.”

“Oh, whatever will the lot of those overstuffed pricks do without the full eight hours of alloted daily time to breathe down the back of your neck? Do me one, tiny favor and sneeze on at least one of them today.”

Well, infecting the entirety of Stormwind’s House of Nobles with the Blood Plague(‘s incredibly diminutive and stunted inbred bastard cousin) would be one way to clear his schedule for a day or two. If an unconventional one. “What’s in it for me?”

“If I told you that I had sufficient access to the Horde to Shanghai the Blightcaller and chain him up in the Keep’s basement for you to do with as you will at your leisure?”

Anduin snorted. “A continued supply of sweet buns will be enough.”

“Just as long as you don’t keep throwing them at me.”

“No promises.” The Priest smiled at his friend and pushed open the throne room’s doors. Only to catch immediate sight of Mathias, waiting beside Jaina and Genn, and feel the smile slide off his face. “What happened!”

“King Anduin” his Spymaster stepped forward to address him, “ _ The Arabesque  _ has returned.”

“We sent out ten ships to secure one Zandalari cutter and a Forsaken frigate!”

“And they ran into the entire Zandalari navy, Anduin.” Jaina’s staff tapped against the throne room’s marble floor. “They were sunk. If any of the sailors survived they washed ashore on that Light Forsaken island and there’s no telling what happened to them from there.”

“From the testimony of the crew they’d caught up with those Horde rats and were bombarding them with cannon fire.” Genn growled. “They  _ had them. _ Until their Princess used some Loa magic.”

Anduin’s gaze scattered nervously around the room. He could feel a headache building behind his eyes but resisted the urge to rub his temples. “And now,” he said, “the Horde has the Zandalari navy at their back. The oldest, most powerful navy on Azeroth. Is there anything that we could hope to match them with?”

Shaw and Genn both looked at Jaina. The former Arch Mage hesitated. “I can think of one.”

A cold hand gripped his spine. “Jaina, you can’t really be suggesting Kul Tiras. If you go back-.”

“I know what will happen.” Jaina’s face was conflicted beneath her braided hair, stark white but for the lone strip of the blonde it had once been. Before the bombing of Theramore. “But I also know we don’t have a choice. And I know you know it too.”

As much as he wished otherwise, Jaina was right. There was only one thing he could think to say. “I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not!” Genn snapped, his eyes tinged gold. “You are the King, Anduin. You’re needed here.”

“My father,” a bit more of his annoyance than perhaps he’d wanted to show was clear in his voice as he spoke, “was King before me and often ruled from the front lines. As I now sit on the Lion Seat, it’s time I took his place.”

“Anduin-.”

“You are my advisor, Genn! Not my parent!” He snapped, rounding on the Worgen. Though he stumbled back, there was a flash of something like approval which showed itself in the depths of those feral eyes. “I love you like family. Never doubt that. But you cannot forget that  _ my _ authority supersedes yours regardless of my respect for your wisdom. I will not negotiate in this.”

“You’re not to go anywhere without a guard, your Majesty.” Mathias’ tone left no space for argument either, his arms crossed over his chest. “Valeera, at the very least.”

Anduin supposed he could do worse for a babysitter. At least with Valeera he’d have a bit of wiggle room to get done what he felt he needed to. Nodding to reassure the other man, Anduin turned his attention back to his adoptive aunt. “When will we be setting sail?”

“ _ The Wind’s Redemption _ can be prepared and fully staffed with Wyrmbane’s finest, in a handful of hours.” Again, it was his Spymaster who answered. “We should be able to draw up anchor at sundown.”

“There’s no time to waste, Mathias. I trust you’ll see it done.” Anduin said. “I’m certain that only the very best will be assembled to see this through.”

“A powerful envoy to parade before Kul Tiras, in hopes of convincing them not to act too rashly.” Valeera adopted the same, cross armed posture as the other Rogue. Leaning back on her heels. “Think it will work?”

“Between what happened at Theramore and father’s refusal to aid them, preoccupied with aiding Lordaeron against the Scourge at the time, there’s no way of knowing.” He tugged at the mouth of his glove, stretching the black leather taut over his fingertips. “Lightwilling, I’ll be able to convince the Lord Admiral to see reason.” The other three had nothing to say. The young King sighed, stepped past them and approached the throne. Taking his place atop the Lion Seat. “Allow the nobles in. Let them know that court will adjourn an hour early;there’s packing to be done.”

“Of course, King Anduin.” Mathias bowed and made a swift exit through the throne room’s door. Jaina, after another long moment spent staring at him with an indiscernible expression, followed the Rogue out. Genn took his place on the left side of his throne.

“You’ve grown,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, “since Lordaeron.”

“I can’t have grown that much in just over three weeks.”

“I don’t mean physically.” The Worgen said. “You’d do your father proud.”

Anduin leaned back against the stark marble of the Lion Seat and watched the first of the nobles enter the room. “I hope that’s true.”

  
  


Closing court early hadn’t saved him from the noble’s wrath; if anything, placing a time limit on their access to him had made their presence even more unbearable. Even with the very real possibility of an unfavorable outcome ahead, it had been with nothing short of relief that the time had come to escape the familiar confines of Stormwind’s walls. With Shalamayne at his hip and Valeera at his side, Anduin had assembled a small chest full of necessary belongings and set out for the harbor.

_ The Wind’s Redemption _ was a towering 7th Legion warship, its broad hull clad in armor and its wide sails a glittering stretch of vivid blue. The setting sun had cast the waters around it in shades of red and violet, lending the vessel the appearance of floating on a sea of wine, and lit the sea spray which scattered the decks like silver stars. Valeera preceded him up the boarding ramp alongside Mathias and four of his elite Lion Guard, marching in pairs, followed at his back. Wyrmbane himself waited to greet them; over his shoulder, just below the main mast, Shandris and Alleria stood watching.

“Lady Proudmoore arrived ahead of you, King Anduin.” The Paladin said. “She’s already below deck. The same can be said for King Greymane.”

“Thank you Halford.” Anduin said. “Let Jes’thereth know that she can draw up anchor at the soonest time it suits her. I’ll find my way to my cabin.”

That had been five days ago, and since setting sail he’d seen little of his chosen family. Anduin would be lying if he said that he wasn’t worried about Jaina, and what she might be thinking, as they drifted there-held in place by  _ The Wind’s Redemption _ ’s heavy anchor within sight of Kul Tiras coast.

The door creaked beneath his touch and he stepped out onto the ship’s open deck. A chill wind blasting him broadside, tugging at a free lock of golden hair and biting the tip of his nose. A dull and distant ache had begun to echo in his bones, but as he crossed towards her figure at the bow he didn’t stumble.

Anduin tried to be quiet as he came to stand beside her but was painfully aware of the heavy thud of his boots against the wind swept wood. When he reached the railing the young King leaned his elbows against it, looking her over while doing his best to appear as if his gaze was on the unfamiliar landmass cut in black before them.

_ She looks at that place like I look at Lion’s Rest. _ Longing. Sorrow. A fondness edged with pain.  _ This was her home, once. Years ago. _ An unfamiliar place Anduin had only ever heard about in stories, veiled from his eyes by the dark of the night. The only proof of its habitation was the distant yellow lights of Boralus.  _ I can’t imagine what she’s gone through. What she must be feeling. What can I possibly even say? _ The water murmured against the belly of the ship as it creaked underfoot. He didn’t know what he expected Jaina to say to him, or if he even expected her to say anything at all, but he still jumped when she started to sing: her voice clear and cold, like ice, as it floated on the faint wind.

“Beware, beware, the Daughter of the Sea! Beware!” I heard him cry. His words carried upon the ocean breeze, as he sank,” she gripped the medallion around her neck tightly in one hand, “beneath the tide.”

“Jaina-.”

“I betrayed my people, my brother and my father, for the Horde. Betrayed them so deeply they’ve immortalized it in folksong. And what did I gain from doing so? My city reduced to ashes. My nephew left crippled after being brought to the brink of death. My friend abandoned to die, surrounded by the Burning Legion.”

“You stood up for what you believe in. You had no way of knowing what Thrall would do. Or wouldn’t do. What the Horde would become. Or who would lead it, one day.” He said. “You can’t blame yourself for what others went on to do.”

“But I can blame myself for my own choices.” She gestured, almost half-hearted, towards the island before them. “They certainly will.”

“People change, Jaina.”

“Consequences don’t.” The former Arch Mage said. “You do realize that I’ll have to face mine, once we reach Boralus, if you want Kul Tiras to consider rejoining the Alliance.”

“I’ll be doing no such thing.”

“Anduin-.”

“I have confidence I’ll be able to pull something off that won’t require you to suffer further for something you’ve already paid far more than enough.”

Jaina shook her head. “You’ve never met my mother.”

“Nor has Katherine Proudmoore ever met the woman who raised me.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Can Onyxia even be called a woman?”

“You’ve never shown any signs she had a lasting impact on you.”

“Because I’ve never had to while you were around. Ask Mathias if you really want to know more.” Anduin stepped back from the railing. Watching the sun begin to rise. “That’s dawn. We’ll be drawing up anchor soon.” As if spurred into action by his words, the heavy anchor chain rattled into motion behind them. The big blue sails filled with wind and the ship beneath them slid back into motion. Sailing between the massive gates and beneath the towering shadows of a pair of armored men holding halberds. Long tapered flags trailing from their blades. Boralus growing ever closer until they’d gilded to an empty dock, the jungle of clothes wires and tin roofed buildings cobbled together from decommissioned ships swallowing them up.

Wyrmbane joined them at the bow as the boarding plank dropped with a clank. “We’ve docked securely, your Majesty.” He said. “King Greymane, Spymaster Shaw and your Lion Guard are ready to head towards Proudmoore Hold.”

“Good.” The armor he’d changed into clanged softly as he moved, turning to face the 7th Legion Commander. “We set out immediately.”

His plated boots thumped against the deck as he joined Genn and Mathias at the top of the boarding plank. Pausing only long enough to ensure that they were following him before he disembarked. The docks were a bustle with activity already, in spite of the early hour-sailors and dock workers and shopkeepers who worked at market-and all stopped to stare as they passed. Murmuring spreading through their ranks like a baleful wind.

They hardly made it to the gate leading deeper into the city before three Kul Tiran guards rode up on horseback.

“Halt! State your intentions!”

Anduin glanced at Jaina, who stepped forwards. “I am Jaina Proudmoore. I’ve come to speak with Katherine Proudmoore. The Lord Admiral. My mother.”

He paid hawkish attention to the way the guardsmen’s-rather portly beneath his plate, the Priest couldn’t help but notice-face twisted into a teeth-baring sneer. “Oh, we’ll take you to the Lord Admiral alright.” Then motioned to the other guards, who caused his own Lion Guard to bristle as they approached from behind. Anduin swiftly waved them down; the last thing he needed was to spark a battle with the city watch. “Clear the way! Dangerous prisoners in transport.”

Behind him, and under his breath, he heard Genn grumble “What’s this about prisoners? How utterly preposterous!”

Their walk to Proudmoore Hold was brief, and took them through the richest part of the inner city. Anduin didn’t find himself possessed of his usual appetite for discovery and kept his eyes forward on the squat form of the structure up ahead of them; crouched low, like a spiny crab. Apparently word of them had spread, and the courtyard of the Hold was flooded with onlookers.

Good. The bigger the impact the one card he had up his sleeve had the better.

No sooner had they come to a stop than did the Lord Admiral herself, followed by a whale of a woman in a horrific gold trimmed ensemble, emerge from the inner keep Jaina’s mother had cold eyes the color of bay water in winter-an icy greyish brown-and they regarded the Mage with all the tenderness of broken glass.

“So, my wayward daughter returns to the kingdom she betrayed. Why?”

Before Jaina could respond, Anduin stepped forward and in front of her. The width of his pauldrons affectively obscuring her from view. A look of politeness feigned to the very edge of danger locked on his face. “Apologies if this is merely a cultural difference, but in the court  **_I_ ** was raised it’s seen as proper etiquette to greet the highest ranks in the room first.”

“And just what rank are you, brat? Footman?” The large woman’s voice was as astringent as her appearance. The genuine annoyance which sparked within him, alongside a slight touch of Shadow, made his next words come easily.

“I am Anduin Wrynn, High King of the Alliance.” He didn’t bother to look at her. “Now, if you could please silence your kodo, Lord Admiral, I’d be appreciative.”

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Genn staring at him like he’d sprouted eight additional heads. Jaina might have narrowly concealed a half hysterical snort but it was difficult to tell under the horrified choking sound the woman was making, redder than the Horde’s flag at sundown. Mathias had no discernable reaction.

“The Alliance?” The Lord Admiral repeated. “Where were you and your people when we  _ begged _ for your help? When our husbands and sons were slaughtered at Theramore? Why come here now?”

“Because we know you need our help now, Lord Admiral. Even if you don’t, yet.” Anduin said. “If you think what happened at Theramore was a slaughter, then you won’t stand a chance when Sylvanas Windrunner’s Horde comes to this island’s shores.”

“We do not need the help of a boy who plays dress up in his father’s armor!” The larger woman snapped. “Kul Tiras has the most powerful navy in the world! They’ll never make landfall!”

The slight glance the Lord Admiral shot at her companion revealed there was more to the matter than was being let on. He curled his lips into a smile, indulgent and just large enough to show his canines. “Far be it from me to dissuade you from lofty goals. But I think that you, and your people who have gathered here, ought to be made fully aware of what it is you seek to face alone.” He said. “Jaina, show them.”

Confusion was clear on her face. “Anduin?”

“Show them what Sylvanas is truly capable of.” His smile sharpened. “Show them Teldrassil.”

Mathias’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline. Genn looked aghast. “Your Majesty-!”

“ _ Now, Jaina! _ ”

Silence. Then, the Mage sighed. “As you wish, my King.” The soft violet glow of the Arcane suffused the area, collecting into sights and sounds a moment later. Sylvanas, Nathanos and Saurfang behind her, giving the order to burn the tree. The Azerite munitions being launched from the catapults. The World Tree catching fire, filling the air with smoke and screams as the people on it burned.

Anduin hadn’t seen the images himself before now, but kept his face blank despite how harshly it tugged at his heart strings. “If the Banshee Queen can drive a spear into the Lion’s side, what do you think she can do to you?” He turned his back on Katherine and her fuming companion and motioned to his guard. “We draw up anchor at dusk. There’s no need to send your guardsmen to escort us; I’m sure my beloved  _ auntie _ Jaina is perfectly capable of showing us back to the docks.”

The stunned quiet which followed their exit made it clear enough to Anduin that he’d won and his smile didn’t falter as they returned to  _ The Wind’s Redemption. _

“What do we do now, Anduin?”

“We wait, Jaina. With any luck, I’ll be able to put away the ‘Black Dragon’ mask by nightfall.” He said. “In the meantime, while we anticipate a visit, I’ll see to some of that paperwork I brought with me.”

Making his way below deck and to his rooms, the young King freed himself from his armor, straightened his overcoat and settled behind his desk. A handful of hours passed where the only sounds were the creaking of the ship and the scratch of his pen. Then a knock came on his door.

“King Wrynn.” He recognized the voice of one of his guards. “The Lord Admiral is here to see you.”

Anduin allowed himself a brief smirk before smoothing out his mask. “Let her in.” Looking up through his lashes long enough to see Katherine Proudmoore and two Kul Tiran guardsmen standing there, he dipped his quill back into the inkwell and continued writing. 

“Kul Tiras is willing to join the Alliance in their war effort against the Horde.” She said. “If you turn my daughter over to us.”

“I don’t think you’re quite comprehending the position that you’re in, Lady Proudmoore.” he set the quill aside at last and leaned back in his chair. Peering at her over steepled fingers. “You need us more than we need you.”

“We both know that isn’t true, Wrynn!”

“Do we?” his smile grew sharper. “The noble’s game is one of cards, and victory is won through how close to their chest one keeps them. I think the only thing we know is that you lost. Allow me to lay out the deal that you’ll be taking: the Alliance will aid you in ironing out whatever it is that’s going on beneath the surface here, because it’s rather clear there’s something not quite right, and once we’ve proven how invaluable our aid truly is we’ll begin the process of formally bring Kul Tiras into the Alliance.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed. “You have no leverage, boy.”

His smile stretched larger. “Mathias.” The older woman couldn’t quite contain a start of surprise when the Rogue materialized beside her. “Please escort the Lord Admiral off our ship. And alert Wyrmbane to draw up anchor. We return to Stormwind.”

“Fine!” Her voice echoed off the wooden walls. “Have your way, Wrynn. Kul Tiras accepts your terms. Though don’t think we’ll make things easy on you.” Abruptly, and with an aura of wounded pride, she turned and swept from the room. Taking her guards with her. 

Mathias considered him, comfortably sat behind the desk and entirely unruffled, for a long moment before he spoke. “You’re not the warrior that your father was, but you’re a killer politician.”

Anduin picked up his quill.


	6. Wild Gods

The dawning light spilling through the window of his room had dispelled the shadows lingering in the far corner, and left in its wake a feeling of being rather stupid for allowing himself to be made so unnerved by something so trivial. So the Blightcaller had remained in the bedchamber the Zandalari had provided him, not wanting to suffer the presence of Trolls any longer than he had to, until the morning had latened enough for the living to consider it a reasonable hour.

Baine had been busy, it seemed, since Nathanos had abandoned the Tauren to his own devices. He stood beside the Zandalari Princess around a small, improvised war table atop which a couple of maps-layered over each other, with one of Zandalar resting at the top-sat. Lillian was lurking off in the shadows to his right; Nathanos knew neither of the others realized she was there.

Talanji caught sight of him first. “Blightcaller.”

“Princess.” The arrows in his quiver clattered as he came to a stop before the table and looked down at the map. “Planning something?”

“An expedition into Naz’mir, to the north of us.” One of her thick, blunted fingers tapped the northmost point on the first map, where a rather forbidding looking border had been inscribed. “We’ve had troubles from dat cursed place for generations, but of late da Blood Trolls have been getting bolder. Our borders are besieged and my father turns a blind eye!”

Talanji continued speaking but Nathanos had ceased to pay any attention, having caught sight of something in his peripheral vision that made his heart swoop like it hadn’t since he’d lived. One of the Troll guards at the base of the staircase below them had been replaced by the Alliance’s High King. Clad in Zandalari plate which left him almost scandalously bare, he turned his head as if noticing his gaze but Nathanos blinked before he could catch sight of his features and the Troll that had always been there treated him to a raised eyebrow.

“Nathanos?”

He shook himself and turned a sharp glare on the Tauren. “Since you and Talanji seem to get on so well, Bloodhoof, I’ll leave her your aid as she should please to use it. Lillian and I,” said Rogue materialized beside him, making the Tauren shift his weight against his heavy hooves, “will offer the Horde’s aid to those around this city who might have need of it.”

“If I might offer a suggestion, head to Zanchul. Da Priests of da many Loa my people worship are always in need of tings done.”

Aiding their dealings with their Gods wasn’t exactly something Nathanos had had in mind, but in doing so it would be facilitating something sacred to the Zandalari. And that, assuredly, would get them further into the Empire’s good graces. Making it easier for him to secure their navy for his Queen.

“A wise idea.” Half a grunt. His eyes, of their own accord, darted back to where he’d seen the King only to find the Troll still there. “Anyone in particular we ought to seek out?”

“Wardruid Loti and Hexlord Mandokir. Though be warned.” The Princess said. “Dey’ve pledged demselves to rival Loa, and do not get along.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing we’re unable to handle.” Nathanos didn’t give her the chance to make another comment and started down the stairs. Lillian not far behind him.

“A day of running errands, then?”

The Dark Ranger Lord made a non-committal noise.

“This reminds me an awful lot of the sort of thing we’d send those mercenaries to do. The ones you like referring to as mental deficients first class.”

“Would you deny the accuracy of that description?”

“Considering a bad Scarlet disguise was enough to convince them I was still a part of the Crusade? No.” They cleared the doorway and stepped into the sunlight. “I just think you’re capable of coming up with something better.”

“I used to try.” Unbidden, a smile-small enough that his beard and moustache concealed the truth from those around them-pulled at the corners of his lips. “Do you have any idea how difficult that was, Voss? Having multiple dozens of incompetents with the combined IQ of a dented knob coming to me every day and having to assign  _ all _ of them a different disparaging name.” Let alone remember which one belonged to who. “Never mind the Alliance idiots who kept trying to kill me.”

The platform where the Zandalari kept their skyscreamers, and had agreed to house their mounts while they were present in the ancient city, was in sight now. Nathanos nearly tripped over his own feet when Lillian asked “what were you looking at earlier?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nathanos.”

That tone. He knew she wasn’t just going to let it go and would be wholly unruffled by his efforts to intimidate her into dropping the subject. “It’s not your concern. Merely a product of stress.”

Bloodwing, hanging upside down from the bottom of a pterrodax nest, sized him up before fluttering down. Almost catching his hand in its teeth as Nathanos shoved the bridle into its mouth.

“ _ What _ is ‘merely a product of stress’.”

Telling Lillian that he was starting to see Wrynn everywhere didn’t seem to be the brightest idea, given what she’d admitted to penning them together in some sort of bizarre fantasy. “Just seeing things.” He busied himself with the reins.

“Nathanos.” Her voice was edged with concern. “You know that the undead don’t  _ just see things _ .”

Bracing his foot in the stirrup, Nathanos pulled himself into the saddle. Gripping the horn in front of him. “He’s gone, Voss.”

“Light’s Hope Chapel-.”

“Was the result of Death Knights rampaging about of their own accord and Paladin’s tittering like twits; overly dramatic Light wielding fools.” He said. “Now, enough of this nonsense. We’ve menial chores to see to.”

For once, Lillian didn’t push the matter further and they fluttered down onto one of the many platforms of the pyramid city below the Great Seal. Swooping low over small buildings and covered gondolas, many of the Loa priests milling about in the area looking up as they passed, the pair descended a handful of yards away from a pair of bickering Zandalari.

“Looks like Talanji meant it when she said the Hexlord and the War    
Druid don’t get along.” The Rogue said. “These two look about ready to kill each other.”

Grunting, Nathanos dismounted. “Do we need to get involved here?”

As if suddenly becoming aware of their presence, the two Trolls spun around. “Dis feathered snake,” the War Druid jabbed an accusatory finger in the Hex Lord’s direction, “keeps continually sending his damnable pterrodaxes after my Raptari!”

“What’s da matter, Loti? Can’t your followers handle a couple of hatchlings?” The Hexlord’s eyes fell on them. “I’m more than tired of being shrieked at by a follower of Gonk! Come and see me once you’ve finished assisting this lizard, Speaker, and we’ll see about you joining the Paku’ai in service of a  _ real _ Loa!” With a last rude gesture in Loti’s direction, prodding the Druid into snarling loudly, the Hexlord took his leave.

Grumbling in Zandali, she caught them in a sharp gaze. “So you are the undead that speaks for the Horde?”

“The Warchief’s Champion. Nathanos Blightcaller.”

“Are you good at shooting pterrodax?”

Spying one of the things perched on a nearby roof, the Dark Ranger Lord’s eyes narrowed. “They’re close enough to birds.” Notching an arrow, he took aim and fired. Knocking the pterrodax free of the roof and onto the ground. “Nasty things.”

The War Druid smirked. “I tink we’ll get along just fine. And dat you’re less den inclined to follow Mandokir’s idiot advice.” She said. “Gonk, Loa of da Hunt, is far superior.”

Joining the following of any Loa, ‘of the Hunt’ or otherwise, wasn’t something Nathanos was inclined to do. But integration, as much as could be possible for one of the undead, was tantamount for the achievement of his goals there. “The Loa of the Hunt would seem a wise enough choice for a Ranger.” He said. “Shall we take care of these winged scaly rats?”

“Kill them or frighten them off. As long as they cease to terrorize my Druids I don’t care for the methods.” In a bright green flash of nature magic, Loti transformed into a sabertoothed beast and bounded off with a roar.

Nathanos looked over at his friend, a smirk tugging on his lips. “Most screeching animals killed wins?”

“Only if you don’t count your head start.” Lillian vanished in a puff of smoke. Reappearing behind a pair of hatchlings and cutting them down with a twist of her knife. “Keep up, old man.”

Nathanos scoffed. “And to think you were chiding me, just earlier, about using unoriginal insults.” Drawing four arrows from his quiver, Nathanos fired off a volley of dark arrows. Picking a handful of pterrodax out of the sky. 

Lunging forwards, red gaze tracking the rogue’s motion through the stone contours of the district, the Blightcaller took aim at the hatchling Lillian had set her eyes on. His arrow passed through its neck a split second before she reached it, splattering her dark armor with blood.

“Dirty trick!”

“Play to win, Voss.” Disengaging off a low wall, Nathanos swung up onto the nearest roof and leapt the gap onto another without breaking pace. “You’re behind now and wasting the time you could be using to close the gap!”

The end of the platform was rapidly approached and three hatchlings were left. Nathanos took aim only for Lillian to Shadowstep beside him and sprint forward. A hail of throwing knives wiping the last of their quarry from the board.

Nathanos huffed and trotted to a stop. “Alright then.”

“34.”

“...33.” He shouldered his bow with a shrug. “Very well. You win. What do you want?”

“The admission is good enough.” Loti, her dark scales slicked red, slunk into view below them and shifted back into her Troll form. “We should head down. Any idea how long it will take to pledge to a Loa? Or even what it entails?”

“Not the foggiest.” And, in all honesty, had things been up to him, Nathanos would have preferred not to find out. “However long, the sooner we begin the sooner we can finish all this nonsense.” He dismounted the roof, landing a few feet away from the 

Druid with a muted thud against the dusted stone. Lillian not far behind.

“Gonk will be pleased to hear of your aid.” Loti informed them. “Call your mounts. We shall go to da Garden of the Loa so dat you can join de honorary ranks of de Raptari.” Transforming into a pterrodax-one not much larger than those they’d just finished massacring-she lifted off into the sky.”

“Any greater sympathy for those adventurers you used to work with?” Lillian asked, rather dryly, as she whistled for Sharptooth.

“None whatsoever.”

The Garden of the Loa was a lush, walled in overgrowth only a handful of minutes flight outside the city proper. Its ancient cobbled pathways patrolled and guarded exclusively by the gilded constructs which the Zandalari powered with mojo and odd magics the Blightcaller had no concept of. The War Druid led them down along a narrow curving lane into an isolated grotto. Stepping up to the opening of a cave adorned with the massive skull of some long dead monstrosity. Ravasaurs milled about the area as they pleased, paying their entrance little mind. A pack of baby raptors chased each other about, uncaring of the fact they’d just toppled over the tops of his boots. The glowing white eyes of a raptor the size of a Horde War Wagon, clad in golden armor, watched them approach.

“My children have already told me, Loti, who these two are and what they’ve already done for the pack. What they, and their Horde, would do for the Zandalari.” Gonk’s curved claws clicked against the uneven stone floor. “You’ve come because you seek my blessing. I’m afraid I cannot give it. At least, not to you ‘Speaker for the Horde’.”

“Is it because of what dey are?”

The great raptor shook its blunted head. “Undeath makes no difference. The Rogue is free to join our pack, if they so choose. But the Speaker has already taken a Loa.”

“What?” the snap to his voice made one of the nearest ravasaurs hiss. “I’ve taken no Loa!”

Gonk’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps, then, it would be more apt to say a Loa has taken you.” He said. “Return to me once your standing contract has been severed, if it is my blessing you desire. Until then, there is nothing I can do for you.”

“Thank you, Loa of Shapes. If de Rogue would take your blessing?” Lillian shook her head when Loti looked at her. “We’ll take our leave, den.”

“Go with the pack.”

With a last glance at the Raptor’s strangely knowing gaze, Nathanos followed the other two out. 

“I believe I might know who it is dat holds your contract.” Loti said once they’d exited the cave. A faint drizzle had begun to fall and the three sheltered beneath the overhand of teeth. “When we return to Dazar’alor, tell Talanji dat you wish to accompany her to Naz’mir. Da Loa of Graves not be one ya want to be bound to.”

A Loa was a Loa to him. Who they were and what they were supposed to hold power over made no difference. But the notion that a savage ‘God’ had dared lay any sort of claim to him without his permission or even his knowledge wrankled Nathanos. Reminding him far too much of Arthas. “We’ll take our leave then, War Druid.”

“You don’t seem terribly concerned.” Lillian said once the Troll was out of earshot.

“I’m not.” The Blightcaller settled himself back in the saddle. “Loa can bleed. Loa can die. If worse comes to worst, we’ll get rid of this ‘Loa of Graves’ the same way we got rid of the Lich King.”

The two massive bats took wing with a loud clatter. His grip on the saddle the only thing preventing the sharpness of the angle of their ascent from pitching him back towards the earth. The Blightcaller glanced down as they banked towards the city and, for a brief moment, caught sight of Anduin peering up at him before the young King was lost among the raindrops and the quivering waxy leaves. They swooped in for a landing a handful of moments later and dismounted. Lillian close on his heels, Nathanos swept back into the Great Seal. His red eyes quickly located the hulking form of the Tauren, and the Princess not long after.

“Back already, Dark Ranger Lord?” Baine rumbled as he approached.

Nathanos grunted in his vague direction and then addressed Talanji. “Lillian and I will be accompanying your Expedition.”

The Troll considered him. “The additional aid is not unwelcome, but I question what has changed.”

“Your War Druid took us to see Gonk. But the Loa of the Hunt was unable to ‘grant his blessing’ on account of a pre-existing pledge to another. That I never made.”

Talanji’s eyebrows rocketed into her hair. “And which Loa would dare to do such a thing?”

“Loti suspected one ‘Loa of Graves’.”

Her face became grim. “Bwonsamdi!” It came out like a curse. “Of course! It would be just like dat miserable bag of bones to do something like dis! We’ll make a detour to his temple while in Nazmir and do whatever need be done to see that contract mooted.” 

‘Whatever need be done’ indeed. “When should we expect to set out into this damned swamp?”

“A handful of days.”

The Dark Ranger Lord nodded. “A handful of days, then.” The sooner all this madness could be sorted out, in his mind, the better.


	7. Shining Star

Frost stretched glittering fingertips across the porthole’s glass. Anduin, still heavy with sleep, sat on the corner of his bed and felt  _ The Wind’s Redemption _ rock beneath his feet. Gooseflesh raised trails down his arms beneath his night clothes’ thin fabric. Cold had stolen in through the ship’s swollen boards with the night and the young King breathed it in until his teeth ached. Until his weak-bound bones felt on the verge of coming apart all over again. He relished it and watched the sky slowly turn the half-murky color of weak tea.

“Come down from those stars, would you?” He hadn’t heard the door open, or close for that matter, too lost in the muted and unfamiliar sounds of the harbor outside. But the Blood Elf was suddenly beside him, offering a beaten tin mug of what looked and smelled like green-brewed Kafa. “Or maybe it’s the Blightcaller you’re lost in. ‘Oh, my Dark Prince! Come and push me into the canal again!’”

Anduin frowned around the rim of the cup. The bitter taste of the hot drink unfurling on his tongue. The heat sinking into his bones where the cold had found a home and chasing it off like spiders from a dark corner. “I thought you weren’t going to tease me about that anymore.” He grumbled. “Genn is on the ship, ‘Leera. He’d have kittens if he heard.”

The Rogue’s ears twitched. “Right. Sorry.” She crossed the room to the dead fire and lifted the poker off the rack. Prodding at the cold ashes in hope of uncovering something from within them that might be rekindled. “Light, it’s frostier than Arthas’ nipples in here! Did you open the window?”

The young King frowned again. “Where did you get this? I didn’t think it could be found outside Kunlai.”

“There’s a vendor in the market, about two minutes walk from where we’ve dropped anchor.” Valeera gave up on the fire and dropped the poker with a clank. Leaving it there to be bothered with later, when it was needed again. Tossed aside like a fallen sword on a battlefield. Anduin took another, deeper drink suddenly wishing the contents of the cup were something stronger. “There are a lot of interesting vendors selling their wares here; Pandaren and Tortollan and Vrykul and then some. You should take a look around when you get the chance.”

Though when that chance would be, and if he’d even get it at all, Anduin couldn’t begin to say. The Priest finished the remains of the hot drink and shivered. The chill still lurking in the room intensifying, as if incited by the heat he’d consumed. “I’ll get dressed.” Gathering his long hair up into a tail at his nape with one hand, he picked up the blue ribbon on the side table and tied it back. “If I can get off this ship without being stopped by anyone and given something to see to, we’ll head to the market and you can show me around.”

“Oh, what an honor.” Valeera snorted, folding her arms as she leaned against the wall. Steady in spite of the listing of the waves. Trailing her eyes along the scars which littered his back, his ribs, his chest like the frost littered the glass of the window. Reminders of his burdens: his victories and his mistakes. Anduin was rummaging around in his trunk for a suitable shirt when she spoke again, the length of the preceding silence enough to make him jump. “Fucker doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

Selecting a matching set of pants, the King straightened up and raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Blightcaller.”

“Oh, yes, very lucky. His life stolen. His family gone. Shackled with the curse of undeath. What is it, exactly, that makes him so lucky?”

The Blood Elf sighed and ran her fingers through her long, blonde hair. Paler than his. Almost wispy, like spider’s silk. “There’s nothing on Azeroth he could possibly lose that could ever outweigh what he’s gained.”

“From what?”

“From you. Loving him.”

“Attraction,” Anduin secured the last of the buttons on his shirt and folded his hands in his lap, “is not love, Valeera.”

“And a seed isn’t a world tree. But it’s a start. Has to grow from something.”

“If it only grows on my side then it’s the last thing I need. I think you know that.”

“Troubled history with boys with red eyes. I haven’t forgotten.”

‘Troubled’ put it lightly when your first crush freed a genocidal maniac and got your father killed, and your current crush was the right hand of a mad woman. He sighed and hung Shalamayne on his waist. “Ready to head out?”

“You mean ready to head up onto deck, immediately be buried in a half a dozen somethings and wind up trapped on  _ The Wind’s Redemption _ all day?” The Rogue stepped up beside him. “I’m ready if you are.”

Shaking his head while unable to hide his grin, Anduin led the way out of his cabin and up the narrow set of stairs. Halford and Alleria were gathered around a rickety looking map table, pouring over a yellowed set of salt encrusted documents. Mathias reclined against the mast and nodded at them before redirecting his gaze out over the water. To Anduin’s surprise, they not only made it across the boarding plank but through the door of the Harbormaster’s office without being halted.

“Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll get to take a look around after all.”

A familiar chuckle shattered that hope. “I’m afraid you’ve spoken a bit too soon, my dear boy.”

Muttering a swear under his breath which Valeera dutifully pretended not to hear, he turned to face the older King. “Genn. Is something the matter?”

“No more ‘the matter’ than things were when we dropped anchor in this harbor.” So, yes. There was. There always was, these days. “Come. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Lead the way.” Anduin motioned the Gilnean monarch ahead of him and, with Valeera at his side, followed Genn down a short set of steps. The walls were made of dark stone and lit by the roaring hearth which warmed the room despite the nip of frost in the air outside. A deep wine rug sprawled across the floor, plush beneath his booted feet.

The space had three occupants already; a massive bulwark of a man with a mane of salted hair and arms as thick around as timber beams, a leaner man with a messy auburn tail and a gleam in his eyes which distinctly reminded him of his Spymaster, and a dark skinned young woman who kept shooting furtive glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Something about her was deeply, strikingly familiar on a level which almost caused him physical pain but for the life of him he couldn’t pin down why. And he strongly suspected that she was the one the Worgen had brought him there to meet.

“Anduin,” Genn had trotted to a stop now and motioned to the older, larger man. “This is Cyrus Crestfall. Formerly a Knight of Kul Tiras, and now Boralus’ sitting Harbormaster.”

“King Wrynn.” The Harbormaster’s voice was low and harsh, like water rasping at a scattered gravel shore. The hand he offered at least three times the size of Anduin’s own, fingers hot and calloused. “You’ll find a warmer welcome here than you did up at the Hold, I promise you.”

“Katherine is aiming to be as difficult as possible and impede our progress at every turn she can, aided by her ankle biting ‘advisor’. Jaina and I are doing our best to handle them.” Genn said. “Luckily for our efforts, the Harbormaster is far more aware of specific goings on around this island than the Lord Admiral he serves. And plenty willing to work with us.”

“I’ve seen infection rot a friend to death from the inside, during the Second War.” He folded his arms. “I don’t need to see my country go the same way. If the Alliance can help us stop our backward slide, damn our pride to hell for trying to get in the way.”

Valeera hummed softly. “Glad to see that not everyone on Azeroth has lost all grip on common sense.” She indicated the other two with a casual tilt of the dagger she’d been spinning. “Who are they?”

“My Squire. And...well, Flynn is something all to his own.”

The man with the auburn hair treated the comment as if it were the highest compliment and grinned beneath his mustache. “You really mean that, Cyrus? Why, that’s the nicest thing this ragged former pirates heard all week!” He winked at Anduin and his grin grew wider. The King returned the smile, ignoring the disapproval which seemed to radiate off of Genn like heat from a Dwarven steam tank.

“I’ve never met a pirate before. Former or otherwise.” He said. “Glad to be able to check that one off my bucket list.”

“I’ve met a King before. If you can really call a Pygmy a King. Little bugger tried to roast me over a fire.” Flynn eyed him somewhat nervously, then. “Say, Stormwind, you’re not going to roast me over a fire are you?”

Anduin stifled a laugh. “I’ve no current intentions to do so.”

“Well, Tide Mother hopes you don’t have future plans to do it either.”

“If he always talks this much,” Valeera snickered, “Mathias will do all the roasting for you. Though he’d probably gut him first.”

“Well, we should go ahead and put him out of his misery then. Don’t you think, ‘Leera?”

“Shaw or Flynn?”

“Yes.”

Genn stepped in to return the conversation to its former track. “And this young woman here is Cyrus’ squire.”

Oh, yes. She was definitely the one Genn had interest in him meeting. A fact only further cemented by the way the Worgen’s warm hand pressed into his lower back to push him forward. “Hello, Ms.” Attempt to prod him into beginning to seek a match, and an heir, aside the Priest wasn’t about to be impolite merely on principle. “King or not, call me Anduin.”

“Hello, Anduin.” There it was again. That half-hesitant look. As if she wanted to say something to him but wasn’t certain that she should. As if she couldn’t believe that he was actually there, in front of her. That he was real. And he got the creeping suspicion it had nothing to do with his crown. “I’m Taelia. Fordragon.”

The floor dropped from beneath him and he released her hand as if he’d been burned. Stumbled back. Valeera forced to catch him before he lost his balance on his weaker leg. “Sorry. Light, I’m...it’s just that I didn’t-.  _ Fuck! _ ”

“Anduin!” Genn sounded scandalized. The Priest was too distracted to care. Of  _ course _ she looked familiar! Of course. When he looked into her face, he saw the shadow of her father.

“I’m sorry, Taelia. I don’t mean to be so impolite. It’s merely...I never expected...can we speak? Alone? About...what happened. To your father.”

Taelia’s tawny eyes swiveled to Cyrus, stood beside Genn who looked to have been left in the dust by the conversation’s sudden turn. “Between Taelia and the Rogue he came in with the King will be safe in Boralus for a handful of hours while we discuss things going forward.”

Human form aside, Anduin could easily imagine Genn’s ears lying back. “ _ Stay _ in the market!”

“We won’t go far. And I’ll keep a close eye on them.” Valeera said.

“I’m not looking for trouble on top of everything else. Not this time.” He offered Taelia the stairs. “After you.”

“Thank you.”

They were quiet as they climbed. Valeera made it to the summit first and immediately disappeared into the shadows, leaving them at least the appearance of being alone. A courtesy for which Anduin found himself sincerely grateful.

It was Taelia who spoke first while the young King was still struggling for the right words. “He used to send me letters. Before… He talked about you all the time. Told me that he loved you like his own. That you were strong in the Light, and good. That he wanted us to meet, one day. Maybe it’s strange.” A gull shrieked as it dove into the harbor after the brief glint of a fish. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life. Even though we’ve never met.”

Anduin swallowed the lump in his throat. “He called you ‘Shining Star’, right?” She nodded. Cracked a smile. For a moment, her eyes pricked with the beginnings of tears. His breath rose in a puff of icy steam. “He loved you. He wished he didn’t have to leave you, but did what he did because he believed it was the best way to keep you safe. As safe as anyone can hope to be, in a world like this.” A world that was cruel above all else. “He was a good man.”

“No one ever told me.” She didn’t say what. She didn’t have to. Anduin knew. “But the letters...they stopped coming.”

“I can never put into words how sorry I am.”

He got the distinct impression Taelia was sorry too. “How did it happen?”

“In the North. In the war against the Lich King. At the Wrath Gate.” The Priest shivered. “He died a hero of the Alliance. The same way that he lived.” Taelia’s lack of satisfaction with that answer was as clear as the day around them. Anduin sighed again. “The Red Dragonfire...it spared him the Blight. But it changed him. He took on a terrible burden to save another. I can’t tell you anymore.”

“Can’t,” her gaze was stern, now, “or won’t?”

“His last wish for me, extended through a letter left by my own late father, was that I never have a hand in you knowing the full extent of his fate. I only learned what truly happened myself when I took on the mantle of King.” Anduin said. “I don’t think he ever wanted you to think of him as...what he became. What that power, that prison, made him.”

After what had happened at Light’s Hope Chapel with the Ebonblade, the young King wondered if there was anything of Bolvar Fordragon left within the smoldering husk of the new Lich King.

“He loved you.” The repetition almost felt empty, but he forged onwards anyway. “He loved you, Taelia, more than anything else in the world and no matter what happens that should always be the only thing that matters.”

She continued to stare at him for a long moment more, then seemed to determine him truthful and let the topic die with a soft “he loved you too. More than I think you realize.”

Anduin’s throat threatened to close and his eyes burned. When he moved to wrap his arms around himself, the Harbormaster’s Squire grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a hug that was almost bone crushing. They stood that way in silence for a small eternity-half-awkwardly in the middle of the crowded streets, Anduin dwarfing her by at least a head and a half-until Taelia stepped back, without relinquishing her grip, and pulled him through the doorway of a tailor’s.

“You’re not dressed anything close to well enough to handle Tirigarde’s weather! At this rate your fingers will fall off before we make it back to Cryus’ office.”

“Jaina told me that it was cold before we left.” And she had. He just hadn’t fully comprehended what she’d meant. “Winter in Stormwind has nothing on this.” Which might have a lot to do with their position wedged between Stranglethorn and the Burning Steppes.

“‘This’ isn’t winter.” Taelia pulled a knitted cap down off a rack and pulled it over his head. “Your ears are red.” So were his cheeks. Embarrassment joining the bite of the wind’s icy teeth. “Come on. We’ll get you some gloves. And a scarf.”

Even with the minor taste he’d gotten of Kul Tiran weather, and the passing promise that it would only get worse as the season died, Anduin was convinced better of arguing the point. “Lead the way.” He said with a slight chuckle in his voice. “I’d like to keep my fingers.”

It was difficult to maneuver properly between the overstuffed racks of coats of all kinds and the mannequins used to bear up displays of hats and scarves with Shalamayne sticking out behind him but, somehow, Anduin managed to follow Taelia through the woolen labyrinth without knocking anything over.

She’d pulled down a scarf by the time he reached her. “This should match that hat well.” She held it up with a smile. “Try it on.”

Anduin took the scarf. Ran the soft fabric between his fingers. Watched the red fibers flash black in the undulating light. It reminded him of the Dark Ranger’s eyes, blown wide with shock. Enough that he could discern his scarlet pupils from among a sea of slightly darker crimson. That the black veins faceting the iris stood out clear and bold. “Thanks.” He wrapped it around his neck and tied a knot at his throat. “My color?”

“It looks better there than on your face.”

“Well, we all blush over something don’t we?” His ‘something’, unfortunately, were dangerous men. Dangerous men who weren’t human. “I think black gloves would be a better choice than red ones.”

“Right.” She smiled. “Over here.”

Finding gloves which fit was surprisingly difficult, given that almost all of them were made to fit Kul Tiran hands. One they finally did manage, they paid at the counter and set out back into the streets.

“Did you eat this morning? Before you left your ship?”

“I didn’t. Unless you count the cup of Kafa that Valeera brought me. I wouldn’t mind sampling some local food, if you have somewhere in mind.”

“Like chocolate?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Anduin grinned.

“Follow me.” She turned suddenly off into what looked like a side alley without explanation and Anduin was left to scramble after her or be lost among the jagged turns. Taelia stopped outside of what looked like an abandoned building and pushed open the door. The sweet smells of chocolate and confectionary sugar hit him like a charging Tauren. “Wait here. This should only take a minute.”

Her footsteps thudded down the stairs before them and Anduin was left alone, apart from Valeera in the surrounding shadows, to wait. It didn’t take long before she returned, passing him a glass bottle of moonberry juice and a massive steaming pastry.

“Best in Boralus.” She said. “Let’s find somewhere to sit.”

‘Somewhere to sit’ turned out to be a sea-front wall just far enough from the docks that the smell of fish didn’t reach them too strongly on the wind. The stone was cold and slightly damp and made his fragile hips ache but Anduin ignored the discomfort in favor of taking a bite of his food.

The shock must have shown on his face because Taelia laughed at him. “Gooseberries and chocolate. Homemade every morning. And, if you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past it.”

“Crying shame.” Anduin licked a dollop of chocolate off the pad of his thumb. “I might have to get these imported into Stormwind. Then again, eating this every morning, I’d end up looking like...well, I don’t know the Lord Admiral’s Advisor’s name so I suppose that joke can’t really land.”

His companion was grinning anyway. “Priscilla Ashvane certainly has a...presence.” She said. “I still can’t believe you called her a Kodo to her face.”

“Anyone who tells you that I don’t have a mean bone in my body hasn’t really met me.” He said. “Granted, before my display at the Hold, the list of people who had were...Mathias. My father. Your father. And Garrosh Hellscream.”

“That was the real you? At the Hold?”

“That was the other half of the real me. The half that was raised by the torturing claws of a Black Dragon. The half that would be no better a King than Sylvanas is a Warchief, left unchecked. The half that’s Shadow, instead of Light.” He finished the pastry, knocked crumbs from his fingers and reclined against his hands. “I only let it out when I have to. An ace, of a sort. No one ever expects it.”

“I’m glad to hear that’s not who you really are, Anduin.”

“I’m glad about that too.” He said. “You seem bothered. Is something the matter?”

“You’re my brother. Not by blood, but...I think King Greymane…”

“Is attempting to set something up between us?” Anduin sighed. “Yeah. I got that sense too. But you don’t need to worry about me expecting anything of the sort. I understand my duties to my Kingdom, given my station, but...left to my own devices it wouldn’t be a woman I eventually ended up with.”

“We play for the same team, then? Thank the Tides, now Flynn has someone else he can talk to about men.”

“Does he do that alot?”

“Fairwind is an incorrigible flirt with a penchant for red hair, leather and sharp objects.”

Anduin snickered. “Sounds like my Spymaster is in for an interesting stay.” He couldn’t recall ever seeing Mathias in a situation where he had to contend with flirtation. “I prefer dark hair, personally. And...red eyes.”

“I’m guessing Humans don’t exactly fit into that description?”

Anduin tugged on his ponytail nervously. “When I was fifteen, my first crush was a Dragon.”

“And your current one?”

“A mistake. He’s Sylvanas’ right hand and the only interaction I’ve ever even had with the Blightcaller was him throwing me into one of Stormwind’s canals.” Come to think of it, ‘irritatingly prone to quips and snark’ was another quality which no doubt found a home high up on his ‘things I find attractive’ list.

“An Undead?”

“A very well preserved Undead.” His cheeks were burning. Anduin burrowed into his scarf in an effort to hide. “And a former hero of the Alliance, before he fell to the Scourge when they swept across Lordaeron. A strategist and tactician who, arguably, won both the First and Second Wars.”

“I think most people would be frightened of the Undead.”

“I’m not most people.” Largely to his detriment. “We should head back. They did say they wanted to discuss the next step with getting to the bottom of things here.”

Wincing as his weight pressed down uncomfortably on his bones, Anduin got to his feet. Overhead, another gull screeched.

“Right.” Taelia joined him on her feet. “The fastest route back to Cyrus’ office is this way.”

Down another alley and a set of stairs, they arrived at the upper door of the Harbormaster’s office. The fire was still roaring away when they joined the other three in the main room. Anduin, with as much subtlety as he could muster, placed himself as close to the hearth as he could without being inside it.

“Perfect timing, King Wrynn.” The old former Knight said on catching sight of him. “King Greymane tells us you intend to assist with these matters personally?”

At least this proved Genn had taken his words to heart. Anduin smiled. “I prefer to be hands on in aiding my people whenever the opportunity presents itself.” He said. “Please, fill me in on what needs done.”

Cyrus looked to Flynn, still leaned casually against the opposite wall. “Well, from what I hear from Tae there you and Ashvane made fast friends the other day.” He said. “So, you’ll be happy to hear that the Ashvane Company has been up to something rather off, all shut up in their Foundry. Some of the locals ‘volunteered’ to work in the area and haven’t come back like they should have. And dear old Priscilla won’t give anyone who asks what she’s up to an answer that’s any straighter than I am.”

“Fairwind!” Cyrus sounded exasperated.

“That horrible woman certainly seems to be up to something. And it sounds like those being ‘employed’ there are being made into, at best, indentured servants.” Anduin wound his scarf a few more times around his shoulders. “When can we set out?”

“Depends on wonder bird.” Flynn said. “Can she carry three?”

“Four.” Valeera corrected. “I’m sure the two of you are good people. Completely trustworthy. But that one is all I have left and I’m not about to let him go running off without me.”

He’d seen that one coming about a thousand miles off. “Most mounts can’t carry that many. Luckily, ‘Leera and I have brought our own along.”

“The stable isn’t far from here.” Taelia said. “Flynn and I will meet you on  _ The Wind’s Redemption _ , with Galeheart.”

“I’m sure Bramblepaw and Seamist are both as eager to set out as I am.” Anduin turned to the Rogue. “Shall we?”

“Right behind you.”

_ The Wind’s Redemption’ _ s towering sapphire sails rippled in the frigid wind as they approached the great ship. The grey waters of the harbor heaved below the boarding plank. Bramblepaw greeted Valeera with a rumble and a cavernous yawn; the Wyvern’s massive teeth glinting in the murky light. Seamist rustled his wings and pressed his beak into Anduin’s palm.

“Ready to fly?” the white Griffin whistled at him and crouched low to the gently rolling deck. Allowing the young King to pull himself up behind its withers. Another Griffin’s cry echoed through the frosty air a split second before Galeheart, supporting Taelia and a rather unsteady looking Flynn on her back, descended between the masts.

“The two of you are ready to set out?”

“Right behind you.” Anduin stifled a grin on noticing his Spymaster’s raised eyebrow, green eyes directed towards the former pirate who was openly staring at him. Flynn shouted in alarm and nearly toppled off the Griffin backwards when Galeheart took flight. Laughing, Anduin nudged Seamist into the air.

The dark wood and oxidized roofs of Boralus fell steadily away below them as they climbed higher. Evening out just above the silver clouds and banking around towards the north.

“Hey, Stormwind!” Flynn called over the wind. “Who was that red head back there on your ship?”

Taelia muttered “oh Tides, I knew it.”

“That,” Anduin said around a grin, “is my Spymaster. Mathias Shaw.”

“I love that man, and he’s loyal as hell, but handle with care, Fairwind.” Valeera warned. “Sharp edges.”

“You say that like he bites, ‘Leera.”

“He wears his fangs a lot more openly than you do.” Valeera said. “I’m surprised you’ve never noticed. Even with them never being aimed at you. Then again, at least recently, you’ve been distracted with Nathanos and his ‘January embers’.”

“‘ _ Leera!” _

“Got a lover back home, Wrynn?” the former pirate’s eyebrows wiggled. “‘Nathanos’ is an interesting name for a woman.”

“Burly for a woman too.” Valeera snorted. “With a lot of facial hair and a very deep, metallic voice.”

“Metallic?”

Anduin, in that moment, was sincerely contemplating jumping to his death. “He’s not my lover.” Though a rather inconvenient set of fantasies couldn’t help but make him wish otherwise. “He’s the Warchief’s Champion. Undead. And Horde.”

“Huh.” Was the man’s only reaction. A fact for which the Priest could only be grateful, and which sparked a surge of affection: at this rate he’d prove to be an invaluable friend. “What’s this about ‘January embers’?”

“The Blightcaller’s eyes are red.” Not as red as Anduin was certain his face was, just then. “Anduin went into great detail describing them after we fished him out of the drink. I think he might have had a concussion at the time.”

“I  _ never  _ said  _ anything  _ about ‘January embers’!”

“Alright, fire. ‘Winter fire’.”

“ _ I will turn this Griffin around!” _

The other three burst into uproarious laughter. The Priest wrapped his scarf around his face, grumbling darkly into the wool.

The atmosphere of the flight shifted into one of business as they descended below the cloudline. Catching sight of the Foundry as they came to land behind a stand of towering pines.

“That’s the Foundry across the way?” Valeera asked, to nods from the other two. “Certainly isolated, off in the forest along an ancient looking road. The perfect place to be getting up to something when you don’t want anyone to know about it.”

“Certainly better than the Ashvane Company buildings in Boralus.” Taelia said. “But we’ll be headed there next if we can uncover anything resembling a lead here.”

Shalamayne hissed as it was drawn from his belt. “No time to waste, then.” He said. “We should be safe to leave the mounts here; we’ve landed far enough into the trees that they won’t be seen from the road.

“We’ll use the forest for our own cover as well.” Taelia said. “They shouldn’t expect people to come in from the sides of them, after all, while the front will be guarded.”

“Good point, Tae.” Flynn said. “Through the woods we go.”

“Something tells me that we’re not headed to grandmother’s house.” Valeera grumbled as three of them fell in on the reformed pirate’s heels.

Undergrowth crunched beneath their feet as they walked. Anduin’s right leg, from his toes all the way up to his tip, ached terribly for the cold and the Priest did his best to hide his limp from the concerned gaze of Taelia and Valeera, though he could tell that the Elf wasn’t fooled.

The Ashvane Foundry was a sprawling complex of warehouse buildings and industrial looking clutter, staffed by mounted guards in fine clothing and haggard looking works with worn soot-streaked faces.

“They’re even forcing little children to work here. In these conditions?” he could hear the horror in his own voice.

“Ragamuffins and Orphans, mostly. Along with the children of families so poor that all of them have found themselves working here.” Flynn said. “There are a lot of them in the Dampwick ward, Stormwind. Kul Tiras’ legs are a hell of a lot shakier than they look at first glance. Have been ever since the end of the Second War.”

“Well, the Alliance has returned to reinforce those legs.” Anduin’s grip on Shalamayne tightened. “We have to get those people out of there.”

“We will, Anduin.” Taelia said. “Bridgeport is nearby. We can send them there, once we get through those mooks.”

“And find the source of their behaviour.” Valeera said. “We can’t forget why it is that we’ve come.”

“No time to waste, then.” Anduin set out with sword in hand towards the Foundry’s outskirts. Not bothering to check if any of the others followed behind him.

“We have two targets here: the most likely to have the information that we need and the one in charge of suppressing the workers.” Taelia said. “Taskmaster Williams and Forgemaster Farthing.”

“Best to go for the Taskmaster first.” Flynn said. “So we won’t have to lug whatever evidence the Forgemaster has around with us.”

“Good idea, Fairwind.” Valeera vanished into the shadows a moment later.

“What’s that, there?” Anduin slowed to a stop as they passed a light mounted on a pole. Pulling down a yellowed sheet of paper. Squinting at the faded ink. “‘Faithful employees, effective immediately all shifts are doubled. We do not ask this of you lightly. Your hard work ensures the safety of Kul Tiras in these uncertain times. Regarding increased company presence on site: rest assured, they are here for your safety. Given the rumors of foreign invaders and spies among us, we can never be too careful. Obey their instructions to avoid any unseemly incidents. Kindly direct inquiries to Mister Farthing or Master Williams.’ What a bleeding pot of crock!” Anduin tilted the paper slightly. Brow crinkling at the way the dust caught in the ink glistened blue and gold in the light of the sun.  _ Almost looks like… _ but where would they possibly have found a source of the Ore? “Flynn. Taelia. What, exactly, does this Foundry normally produce?”

“Munitions. Gunpowder and the like.” Flynn said. “For the guard.”

“And have the guard been getting munitions and gunpowder at an increased rate?” A quiet exchanged glance told him all he needed to know. “Well, if the Boralus Guard isn’t benefiting from the increased production of this Foundry, who is?”

“No one good, I’d reckon.” Taelia said, eyes narrowed. “If they feel the need to hide it.”

“Not good at all.” Anduin folded the notice and tucked it away inside his cloak. “We need some questions answered. And one of those ‘company presence’ will do perfectly.”

“I don’t know, Stormwind. I doubt they’d be willing to sit down with us for tea.”

The grin Anduin showed, then, made him look exactly like a hungry lion. “Don’t worry Flynn. They’ll talk to me.” Tilting his head in the direction of a nearby Ashvane Overseer. “He’ll do just fine, I think.”

“I think he’s lost his mind, Tae.”

“You weren’t at the Hold when they showed up with Lady Jaina, Flynn.” Taelia said as they krept after the young King, now making no effort to hide his presence. “I think he has a plan.”

The Overseer caught sight of them before Flynn could reply and opened his mouth to call out a warning. Anduin made a strange gesture and the man’s hands flew to his throat, eyes bugging in alarm as his efforts to speak produced nothing but silence. Blue eyes had hazed over with opaque nightshade, the tint of his smile almost crazed, and when he spoke his voice held the electric tug of powerful compulsion.

“Why don’t you come and join us in the alley? We only want to speak with you, and it wouldn’t do to have unnecessary interruptions.”

The imposed silence had clearly been released because the man mumbled an almost drunken “no, no interruptions” and stumbled dutifully towards them.

“Tide mother!” Flynn’s voice came out as almost a squeak. “Tae, you didn’t tell me he was a Witch!”

“He’s not a  _ Witch _ , Flynn! He’s a Priest!”

“Bloody wicked looking for a Priest at the moment, isn’t he?”

But this last comment went ignored by both of them. 

“What, exactly, is this Foundry producing?”

“Weapons. Munitions. Same as normal, just with the powder.”

“Powder?”

“The powder that the Chemists make, over the way in Bridgeport. Dunno what it's made of.”

“Who is she having them shipped to, if not the guard?”

“Dunno. We just make sure this rabble works.”

“Why are they being made and diverted from their normal destination?”

“Probably because Ashvane wants ‘em used for something.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno.”

It was obvious, from the tightness around his eyes, that Anduin was beginning to lose his patience with the lack of answers. “Clearly, the lot of you are witless fools for being willing to work for such a cruel and vile hag without knowing  _ anything _ about what you’re working towards. And as little sympathy or pity that I have towards someone already so mindless, I won’t be responsible for snapping your sanity like a bundle of tinder! So answer one last question before I release you.” Twitching shadows gathered at his fingertips. Winding, hissing, around his hands like serpents. “Where can we find the Taskmaster and Forgemaster?”

“Taskmaster Williams does his work in the Northmost building.” The man grunted. “Farthing works on the Foundry’s eastern end.”

“In that much your assistance is appreciated.” Anduin drawled. “This never happened. Erase it from your mind.” A flash of dark magic as the shadows in his hands leapt forwards and the man crumpled to the ground, dead asleep. The young King shook his head as if to clear it, blinked the darkness from his eyes and promptly doused himself in Light. “Sorry about that, if I frightened either one of you.”

“Frightened?” Flynn let out a half-strained laugh. “Not at all. It’s just not every day you see a man go from perfectly normal to dark sorcerer at the drop of a hat.”

“As in the Shadow as in the Light; as long as you don’t go further than your grip on the Light can pull you back from the risk of the Priesthood’s darker powers are limited. I can reach almost the apex of a full fledged Shadow Priest before I start to hear the whispers.”

The former pirate stiffened. “Whispers?”

“I’ve always been particularly gifted with mind magics. Much to the detriment of my father’s efforts to keep me contained and safe, as a boy.” At least half of SI:7 had been on the other end of mind control by that point. A fact Anduin looked back on now with some measure of regret. He gestured at the snoring Overseer. “He’ll be fine, when he wakes up. Confused as all hell, but fine.”

“Stormwind, what did you mean by whispers?”

“If you’re really that curious, Flynn, you can interrogate him about that later.” Taelia pulled her hammer down from her back. “The northmost building that he mentioned is just over here.”

“Tae, I think Stormwind hearing whispers after using witchy magic is a little bit important!” Flynn was forced to leave his questions unanswered when neither paid it any mind.

Pausing at the mouth of the alley, surrounded by the Overseer’s snores, the ping of hammers and distant shouting, the trio checked the lane for any signs of onlookers before they darted across and ducked in through the door of the largest building in the area.

“The bleeding hell are you doing in here? You lot should be working!” Heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs towards them. Leather boots coming into view a split second before the burly man that they belonged to did. Pausing abruptly on catching sight of them. The expression on his face shifted rapidly from shock to fury as they fact that they weren’t workers but outsiders registered on his mind. Thick lips pulling down into a sneer as he raised the notched blade in his hands.

“Snoopin’ around ain’t good for your health!” But as he moved to thunder down the remaining stairs towards them he overbalanced with a shout of alarm and tumbled to the bottom with an earthshaking crash. Ending up in a crumpled heap.

“And running down steps doesn’t seem to be good for yours, big guy.” Valeera leapt gracefully from the staircase and landed with all the noise of a cat leaping from a fence. “Why can’t they all be that easy?”

Anduin shook his head as he approached the man to search him. A puddle of blood was rapidly expanding from his split temple, but all it took was a glance to know he wasn’t dead. 

“Did you just trip him down a flight of stairs?”

“You’re a Rogue and a pirate, Fairwind. You of all people ought to know that our kind don’t play fair!”

“Former pirate, mate.”

“I found it.” Anduin held up the note for them both to see. “‘Suffer no insolence from the soot smeared rabble. Make examples if you must. All that matters is that our clients get their supplies on time. And burn this note after reading it, you buffoon!’” The Priest shoved it into his coat with the first note, scowling. “What clients? And ‘on time’ for what? We need to keep moving.”

“Flynn.” Taelia said. “Can you handle getting these people out of here?”

“Easily enough, if you two can distract the Overseers.”

“Leave that to us.” Anduin said. “Valeera, help him.”

“You’re sure you’ll be alright on your own, Anduin?”

“We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He turned to Taelia. “Let’s head to the eastern side of the Foundary and find Forgemaster Farthing, we’ll run directly there and gain as much attention as possible.”

“You want to fight our way through the middle of the Foundry?” she sounded alarmed.

“Not fighting. Just run until we get to the Forgemaster’s building. Once they’ve all gathered around, I’ll give them something to keep them busy for a while.” There was a cutting mischief in his eyes, now. “Just trust me.”

Though still looking somewhat reluctant, Taelia nodded. “Alright. Lead the way.” 

Ignoring the protests of his rapidly stiffening leg, Anduin took off out of the building with his companion just behind. Shouting and knocking over whatever he could. Narrowly dodging a handful of workers pushing carts of Light only knew what. Spooking an Overseer’s horse into rearing and throwing its rider to the dirt. Soon enough, footsteps and angry voices fell in behind them. A gunshot echoed through the cold air. The bullet whizzing just over his left shoulder.

“They’re shooting at us!”

“Keep running! There can’t be much left of this Foundry, can there?”

“No! The eastern most building is just up ahead!” Taelia said. “Didn’t you say you had a plan?”

“I do.” He said. “Stop here!”

“What?”

“Just do it!” His feet dug into the hard packed earth, kicking up a cloud of dust as he rounded on the approaching board. Reaching out to catch her arm and pull her to a stop beside him. A swift spell surrounding Taelia in a gleaming shell of Light a split second before he plunged back into the cold Shadow and unleashed a Psychic Scream. The effect was immediate: their pursuers descending into utter chaos. Dropping to the ground. Clutching their heads. Tripping over one another as they turned tail, panicked, and fled.

“What did you do?”

“Just a useful trick for when you’re being chased by angry hozen.” He winked and dropped the barrier. “That should give Flynn and Valeera plenty of time to get everyone out. Let’s finish this.”

The door to the eastern most building had been closed prior to their arrival, forcing the pair to work together to push it open. Barely managing to budge it enough to slip inside, and only with a loud shriek which undoubtedly alerted anyone inside to their presence. Not that the commotion they’d caused outside wouldn’t have already. It was stiflingly dark and stuffy inside, the flames bracketed between Shalamayne’s twin blades doing little to dispel the clinging gloom.

“ _ Anduin! _ ”

He barely managed to throw up another shield as the massive axe came down across his back. The magic deflected the blade but not the force, which knocked his breath from his lungs and sent him stumbling. Gasping for air, eyes watering so badly he almost couldn't see, Anduin regained his balance in time to turn and see Taelia swing her hammer at the man only for the weapon to clatter against the axe’s shaft.

“I’ll pound ya flat, you little rats!”

The Forgemaster hoisted his axe again and Anduin threw a Smite at his exposed side, making the man yelp and recoil. Though his flinch only lasted a moment before he took another swing at him. Metal snarled on metal as he raised Shalamayne to block and was nearly thrown into the opposite wall.

Damn him for not thinking to even wear leather under his clothing! Let alone mail or his royal plate.

“Taelia!” The Forgemaster was bearing down on him with all his considerable strength. Anduin’s arms felt on the verge of giving out. “Cover your eyes!”

He hoped that she complied in time. Couldn’t see around the girth of the man who had him pinned. Drawing on the Light to flash from his hands, harmless but searingly bright. The Forgemaster yelled, first in alarm over the improvised flash bang and then in pain as Taelia’s hammer caught him square in the back. Allowing Anduin to disengage his blade and drive Shalamayne blindly forward until it met yielding flesh with a wet ripping noise. Followed abruptly by another heavy thud and a clang as the axe was dropped beside its wielder.

By the time the reds and blues covering his vision cleared he was standing in a puddle of blood and Taelia was at his side.

“Are you alright?”

His arms felt like they’d fall off at any moment. Anduin kept as much to himself and nodded. “Yeah.” He said. “We need to search him.”

“Way ahead of you.” She held out another paper.

Anduin took it and squinted through the dark. “I don’t care how you do it, I want those forges running day and night. The Chemists are producing excellent powder. You will keep them supplied with refined…” his eyes widened, then his jaw set tight and he slipped the last letter into his cloak. “I knew it. I recognized the way the dust in the ink charged color in the light. There’s only one thing that does that. Cyrus, Genn and Jaina need to know. There’s no time to waste reporting this!”

Taelia’s face reflected his own urgency as she nodded. “Those two should have finished by now. Let’s head back to the mounts.”


	8. A New Source

Talanji’s expedition wouldn’t be leaving for a handful of days but that by no means meant the Blightcaller was excused in slacking off in the interim. Nor, much to his displeasure, did it clear his schedule of interaction with the menagerie of doddering fools his position had set him in charge of managing. Which was precisely how the Banshee Queen’s Champion had found himself in the bowels of  _ The Banshee’s Wail  _ with none other than the Trade Prince Gallywix himself. The fact that, without the war profiteering simpleton's initiative, not only would they not have known about the Blood of Azeroth so quickly but they wouldn’t have been able to corner Silithus’ source or get a considerable lead on stock over the Alliance, did nothing to endear the green ball of lard and sleaze to him in any way.

“Well, if it isn’t the Banshee Prince himself, come down from atop that glorious golden pyramid where he speaks for the whole of the Horde to talk with little old me.” Every time the wretch opened his disgusting mouth Nathanos found himself fantasizing about new and gruesome ways in which to rid himself of the Goblin’s nuisance once and for all. Small graces that he hadn’t yet had any delusions of Wrynn today. ‘Yet’ being the sadly operative word. “Well, Blightcaller, what is it that the Steamwheedle Cartel can do for the Horde?”

The sooner he got this over with the sooner he could move on with the rest of his duties for the day. The fact that those duties involved working with Rokhan and infiltrating Tiragard Sound, as the Alliance had somehow managed to reunite with the Seafaring Kingdom in the three seconds their back had been turned, would normally have been enough on its own to put him in a foul mood but the more contact he had with Gallywix the more attractive the notion became.

How angry with him was Sylvanas liable to be if he held the Trade Prince under the water of the harbor until he drowned? “You’re familiar enough with the map of Kul Tiras you’ve been provided that you possess at least a passing notion that Drustvar is a place which exists, yes?” he hissed acidly. Glaring at the squat menace who just kept grinning as if this were all some amusing game. Nathanos wanted desperately to dig his thumbs into his eye sockets and squeeze until his head cracked. “We have reason to believe that a source, or even sources, of Azerite can be found there. The Warchief would see it done that you send men to investigate the area and, if such Azerite can be found, harvest it for the Horde.  _ Before _ the Alliance can catch wind of its presence.”

“Hey, Azerite is my cup of tea. Never you worry, Blightcaller. If it's there, my boys will find it. And harvest it. For the Horde.” That sharp-toothed grin grew impossibly wider. “For a price.”

“Discuss contract with Sylvanas directly.” Nathanos snapped, patience abruptly meeting its end. “I’ve better things to do than waste my time with a gold leech! And this ship has better places to be than anchored in this harbor because you’re still on it!”

“Time is money after all, Bightcaller. I don’t want it wasted any more than you do.” Twirling his Azerite tipped cane and with his lavish fur cloak dragging behind the progress of his stubby strides, the Trade Prince headed for the door. “I’ll head back to Orgrimmar right away and work out matters of compensation with the Warchief. Once that’s done, I’ll send in my men. Happy?”

“ _ Get out of my sight, you avaricious rat!” _

If anything, his outburst and the accompanying snarl only seemed to amuse the retreating Goblin more. Muttering mutinously in Gutterspeak, Nathanos’ eyes ricocheted around the room in search of the gilded nuisance. Found nothing. The Blightcaller wasn’t certain if that made him feel better or worse.

“I haven’t seen you this tense in a long time.”

He sighed, sharp and short. “Voss.” The Rogue leaned against the opposite wall, observing him with sallow eyes. How long she’d been there Nathanos could only hope to guess. “Is the Shadowhunter here?”

“And aware already of most of what’s happening so you only need to tell him a few things.” She said. “You’re welcome.”

The Blightcaller resisted the urge to scrub an uncharacteristic exhaustion off his face and turned towards the door. “Thanks.” He meant it. The blunted edges of the word showed as much. “You’re coming?”

“I’m not about to let you go running off into Alliance territory with only a Troll for company.” Translation: I’m as eager to be stuck here as you are. “Should I tell Tattersail to draw up anchor?”

He nodded. “Please. I’ll brief the idiot.”

Lillian was gone a moment later. Nathanos adjusted the clasp on his cloak and headed out of the room. Up the stairs and onto the deck. Rokhan wasn’t difficult to find from there.

“Voss has told me you know at least a margin of what we’re setting out to do?” The Troll nodded. “Good. We head to Plunder Harbor, a pirate holding only a few clicks from Boralus. An advantageous foothold to have and one of three in the island we’ll soon be carving out, Gallywix and Rexxar are in charge of the others. Our goal is to court the pirates into tolerating our presence if not claiming themselves Horde. I can trust you’ll be of use in achieving as much?”

“Aye, Blightcaller.” Rokhan said. “I take it we have a source that we’ll be approaching?”

Nathanos nodded, watching two crewmen haul the dripping anchor out of the sea from the corner of his eye. “We’ll reach the pirate holding in three days. Be ready to begin our work immediately.”

The Blightcaller spent most of their time at sea shut up in the Captain’s quarters, paid company by the flickering candles and crumbling maps and occasionally visited by Lillian or Tattersail. On more than one occasion, though the Young Lion never showed himself, Nathanos could have sworn that he felt his presence in the room. At his shoulder. Heard his footsteps pacing the hall. When they arrived, at last, in the icy shallows of Tiragarde Sound it came to the Blightcaller as nothing short of a relief. The cold wind carding through his hair, through his beard, as he stepped up to the railing. Gripping the thick coils of a mariner’s rope in hand to maintain his balance.

Plunder Harbor wasn’t anything particularly impressive. Little more than a handful of wet docks and raised pier platforms linking ramshackle buildings. All built around a single ship. About what he’d expect from a hasty built harbor meant to service a single pirate crew.

“It will do.” Nathanos grunted as Rokhan, dressed like a pirate himself, trotted up beside him. “You look like a fool.”

“I look like a pirate. Like you should too, if ya want ta blend in.” The Shadowhunter said. “Voss found someting in her size. I’m sure you can too.”

Growling, Nathanos stalked back across the deck towards the crate which oozed random bits and pieces of clothing. Rummaging through it until he found something close enough to fitting. Shucking off his gear reluctantly to put it on instead. 

Lillian snickered, looking him up and down. “I never thought I’d see the day where you wore a ruffled blouse.”

“That dress makes you look like an ale wench.”

“That chest hair makes you look like a Worgen.”

“After this is over,” Nathanos hissed, slinging his quiver over his shoulders, “we  _ never _ speak of this again!” Her thin laughter, alongside her footsteps, followed him back across the deck. “Happy?”

The Troll stared at him for a moment, but clearly thought better of saying whatever it was he had in mind. “Let's head into tha harbor then.”

A small dingy was lowered into the water and they clambered down a rope ladder to board. The little boat glided with ease across the choppy water and stepped out onto the wooden planks.

“Ahoy!” Rokhan announced to the nearest pirate, who stared at them as if he’d just witnessed a shark sprout legs and walk away into the hills. Nathanos growled and pushed the Troll forwards towards a set of steps. Their footsteps thudded against the wooden stairs and across the deck of the ship as they headed for what the Blightcaller assumed was meant to be an inn.

Owings, First Mate of one Captain Rhenik of the Fogsail Freebooters, was waiting for them there. Cutlass secured to the belt wrapped around her middle which kept her leather coat closed.

“You’re the ones from the so-called ‘Horde’?”

“We are.” Nathanos grunted. “Our sources claim that you’re willing to open your Harbor for our use.”

“Provided you can help us first.” The woman said. “Rhenik would condemn us to service to that Sea Witch Ashvane! All because she’s offering gold and ‘magical’ munitions. I’d rather see us keep our freedom than sell it for a bit of coin.”

“A mutiny.” Lillian said. “We can work with that, I think.”

Nathanos hummed. “Work with it indeed.” He said. “Rokhan, work with Owings here to determine the names of the other authorities within the Freebooters and convert them to our side. Lillian, agitate the masses: spike their beer, one way or another.”

“And what will you be doing?” Owings’ eyes were narrowed.

Nathanos drew an axe from his belt. Examining the play of light off the keen silver blade. “Take the fight to the head of the snake.” He said. “Plunder Harbor will be open to the Horde by nightfall. And then we’ll speak more about this ‘Ashvane’.”

The Dark Ranger Lord turned and exited the inn. Trading the axe for his bow and notching an arrow, though he kept the weapon lowered. Aware of the eyes on him, though his appearance-red eyes and blue skin-kept them from approaching him outright just yet. He scanned the higher platforms and centered in on a cave as Lillian and Rokhan emerged behind him and dispersed to handle their own respective assignments.

_ Time to slaughter a snake. _ Whether or not the writhing body would cause any damage in its death throes was yet to be seen.

A pirate tried to block his path but Nathanos didn’t slow his pace. Driving his shoulder into the man’s middle and flinging him down off the pier into the water below. The lower walkways and humorous docks had erupted into chaos, Rokhan crossing blades with a pirate woman atop the docked ship while Lillian flitted from keg to keg, vindictively stabbing them to let out the alcohol inside. Apparently having decided that the less literal form of ‘spiking’ was too much effort.

Snorting and shaking his head, Nathanos slid to a stop outside the cave. Bow raised. The man inside was swift for his size, the Blightcaller would give him that. Bull rushing him with a weapon-blade or mace he didn’t quite get the chance to determine before it was being swung at him-in hand. He dodged the first swing. Ducked the second. Caught the third against the arm of his bow and fired point blank into the Captain’s chest. Watching the man collapse to his knees. Supporting himself on splayed hands as he bared bloody teeth.

Nathanos drew his blade and took his head with an easy pass. Leaving the fallen body for the gulls, trying not to shudder at the thought of birds, and openly carrying his prize back to where they’d left Owings in the inn. Dropping it at her feet with a hollow sounding splat.

“I think that fulfills our end.” He said. Not bothering to turn as Rokhan-splattered in blood-and Lillian-splattered in beer  _ and  _ blood-entered behind him. “Now, do tell me about this ‘Sea Witch’.”

“Priscilla Ashvane is Proudmoore’s advisor. Though she seems to have her eyes on the Lord Admiral’s seat, these days.” Owings grunted. “Has been trying to amass support from pirates to take Boralus for herself. Offering gold and ‘magic powder’ that she produces at her Foundry.”

“Magic powder?” Nathanos repeated.

Owings went behind the bar and pulled out a nondescript drawstring bag. The Blightcaller upturned it and dumped the contents onto a nearby table. Immediately recognizing the blue-gold sheen. “Where is this Foundry?”

“Not far from here.”

“Nathanos?”

He nodded to her unasked question. “Rokhan, see to it that everything is put in order here. Voss and I will retrieve our gear and head towards this Foundry to see what clues might be found there as to where in the nine hells they’re getting Azerite without the Admiralty, and the Alliance through them, knowing about it. The Dark Lady must be made aware immediately.”

Tattersail would also need to be alerted that they wouldn’t be returning to Zuldazar quite as soon as they’d originally planned. He’d need to get a portal to Orgrimmar from one of the mages on board once they returned, he didn't doubt. Thank the Light, for all he’d come to despise it since his death, that they’d thought to bring their bats this time.

Clambering up out of the dingy and back aboard  _ The Banshee’s Wail _ , the Blightcaller hastily redonned his gear-leaving the damned blouse discarded on the wooden planks-and went in search of the Captain. Finding her at the helm.

“I get the sneaking suspicion, from the look on your face, that you’re not here to tell me that we’re headed back to the Zandalari’s city.”

“The Lord Admiral’s advisor seems to be planning some sort of coup. She’s been hiring pirate crews in the area and supplying them with weapons produced with Azerite.” Nathanos watched her eyes widen. “Voss and I are headed to the facility where they’re being made to attempt to get to the bottom of things after which time I’ll be reporting what we find to Sylvanas. We may be here a day or two longer than originally planned.”

She nodded. “I’ll let the crew know.” Tattersail said. “Good luck, Blightcaller. Just come back in one piece. Our people need you, now more than ever.”

Nathanos grunted and called Bloodwing down from the mast. Joining Lillian, already circling overhead astride Sharptooth. They banked right and left the coast behind. Gliding over rock and grass and towering pines and descending over a clutter of warehouses in chaos. No laborers anywhere in sight, but every Overseer they saw seemed to be lost to a spiraling panic he recognized as the influence of a Shadow Priest. From the length and severity of the effect, likely one of enough power to concern him as to where they might be lurking.

“Blightcaller!” Lillian pointed into the trees. “Look!”

Two Griffins and a Wyvern had risen up over the tops of the pines, headed back towards the city. He recognized the figure atop the white beast in the middle, even from behind, by the blue and golden overcoat they wore.

_ Wrynn. _

“We’re too late.” He pulled on the reins and directed Bloodwing back towards the harbor. “They know about the Azerite, as much as we do. We must act quickly!”

The Alliance King and his companions didn’t appear to have caught sight of them, which came to Nathanos as the sole point of solace. Bloodwing and Sharptooth ferried them quickly back across the sound and landed with a flutter and a screech on the decks of  _ The Banshee’s Wail. _

“I’ll return within the hour.” He said, heading for the stairs leading below deck. “We’ll discuss our next move then. In the meantime, help that Troll get things here into proper order!”

Finding a Mage was done simply enough, thankfully, and within the span of only a handful of minutes the Blightcaller found himself entering Grommash Hold. 

“Has something gone wrong, my Champion? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Under other circumstances Nathanos might have mistaken her words as an attempt at a joke but Sylvanas didn’t look amused. No doubt down to her recent contact with Gallywix. “My patience is thin. Speak your piece and leave me.”

She’d have sought his company, once, when the rest of the world became too much to bear. Again, though he still refused to manifest himself, Nathanos felt Anduin’s presence. Arms around his shoulders. Chest against his back. Warm lips on his neck. Annoyed, he shook the sensations off like a gathering of snow. “We secured Plunder Harbor as a foothold in Tiragarde and learned that one Priscilla Ashvane has cornered a previously unknown source of Azerite which she’s been using to produce weaponry. Weaponry she’s been providing to pirates in pursuit of a coup.” Nathanos tried not to show how discomforting her piercing gaze was. “Voss and I arrived at the Foundry where she had them produced in time to see Wrynn leaving.”

When Sylvanas leaned forward on her throne it took everything in him not to cringe. “It’s doubtful they found enough evidence to bring this Ashvane down quite yet.” She said. “Approach her, Nathanos. Immediately. Offer her better means to take Boralus as her own than a ramshackle group of pirates. See if we can secure her source of Azerite for ourselves.”

“As you command.”

Sylvanas watched him go without a word. His footsteps pinging off the metal talons beneath the thick soles of his boots. The Dread Guards astride the entrance paid his exit no more mind than they had his arrival.He made his way back to the Pathfinder’s Den and purchased a portal off one of the Mages squatting there, ending up once more on  _ The Banshee’s Wail _ . Just in time to intercept Rokhan as he mounted the boarding plank.

“Shadowhunter,” he hissed, freezing the Troll in his tracks. “Do you have anything in that stash of yours that would allow me to pass as a Kul Tiran?”


	9. Out of Place

Seamist led their descent with a screech and the glint of sharp talons. Landing on the decks of  _ The Wind’s Redemption  _ and shaking out his feathers. Followed first by Bramblepaw, Valeera immediately dismounting to help him down, then Galeheart, Taelia dragging Flynn behind her when he tried to linger to get a better look at Shaw, half concealed behind Wyrmbane as the two huddled over a map. Their footsteps tapped loud as gunfire against the stone steps leading down into the Harbormaster’s office. The flames in the hearth had shrunk but not died and Genn was nowhere to be seen, no doubt having returned to Proudmoore Hold to mediate between the estranged mother and daughter. Cyrus, however, was there and looked up from his seat as they entered. Pushing himself onto his feet a moment later.

“Find anything?”

“A lot of things, if you ask me.” Flynn said. “Including the fact that Stormwind here would make all of Drustvar shit themselves.”

“You act like he turned himself into a Dragon.”

“I think I’d rather he did, Tae.”

Anduin ignored the pair and stepped forward. Pulling the letters they’d collected from the confines of his coat and handing them to the HarborMaster. Watching Cyrus’ thick fingers crinkled the paper as he took them and read them over. Sharp eyes skimming over the page.

“So they are up to something. And whatever it is, it’s using this ‘Azerite’ you’re fighting over with the Horde.” Cyrus sighed as he set the papers down. “It’s not enough. Not to arrest her. But it’s enough to greenlight looking into matters further. From the sounds of it, she’s having her Chemists turn the refined powder into workable munitions. Most of those work out of Bridgeport. You’d be best served to look there.”

“That’s not far from the Foundry, if I remember what I was told correctly.” Anduin said. “That’s where we sent the works we rescued.”

“It is.” Taelia said. “We can get there by the ferry almost as easily as we could by flying and it might be better to do so. Would draw less suspicion that way, as it’s the means through which most people arrive in the town.”

“You’ll need a ferry pass to do that.” Cyrus grunted, making his way behind the bar and rustling around for a few moments. Pulling something out and stamping it with the seal ring on his hand before returning to Anduin and passing it to him. “There you are. Keep that on you, even after the three of you return. In nothing else than for ease of travel around Kul Tiras.”

“Thank you, Cyrus.” Anduin tucked the ferry pass away into the inner pocket of his coat and turned to the other three. “Shall we head to the ferry, then?”

Taelia nodded and turned to leave. Valeera following behind. Flynn waited until Anduin drew level to where he was standing before he started walking himself. “You’re not planning to go all shadow and bone again are you mate?”

“Not if I don’t have to. But I might not have another choice if we end up in another fight.” Anduin said. “I understand that it makes you uncomfortable. That much is something I regret. But if it can’t be avoided, then I don’t apologize.”

“Well, what do you carry that sword around for then?”

Shalamayne. Anduin sighed and lightly stroked the leather wrapped handle. “It was my father’s, before me. A symbol of House Wrynn authority. And one of the only things I have left of him.” He said. “But I’m not a warrior. I never have been. I can use it when forced to but...if my life is in danger I’d much rather fall back on my magic. Provided I can get away with it.” Provided he wasn’t surrounded by the full might of the Alliance, which did not need to know just how much of a command of the Void their King had. Not after Onyxia. Not after Benedictus. The Void Elves were one thing. The House of Nobles would have his head. “I don’t bite, Flynn. Shadow or not.” Anduin told him. “No need to worry. I know where my boundaries are so I don’t have to worry.”

“About the whispers?”

“All of this is about the whispers?”

“Voices in your head is something every sailor knows is a bad sign, out at sea.”

“It’s a bad thing for a Priest, too.” Anduin said. “I’ve only heard them once. And that was a long time ago. I was 15. I was hurting. I overreached and it almost ended badly. Once was enough to learn my lesson.”

Flynn seemed to have tipped more towards interested than wary, now. “If you don’t mind me asking, Stormwind, what did you do?”

“I surrendered to madness.” Informing him that he’d sprouted tentacles all over his body and then passed out, or that he’d heard the whispers of the Void for the next mouth probably wasn’t wise so Anduin kept those little details to himself.

“Don’t let Alleria hear you talking about using advanced Shadow Magic.” Valeera said. “Also, when we get back to Stormwind, I’m searching for any of the Twilight Father’s books and pitching them.”

“I’ve already read them so feel free.”

The Blood Elf let out an exasperated sigh.

The ferry, it turned out, was a small wooden boat run off a short dock by a man and his two young children. Fitting all four of them into it was something approaching a squeeze but they managed and set off across the Sound with a speed Anduin suspected to only be possible with magic. The waves jostled their passage but ultimately the trip was smooth and they made it to the little dock at Bridgeport unscathed, if a little damp. Anduin followed Flynn out of the boat, and then turned to help Taelia and Valeera down.

“The Ashvane Company building is just over there.” The Harbor Master’s squire indicated, as subtly as she could, a two story building just two storefronts down from them. “Most of her Chemists work out of there. The others are at the Ashvane Docks, near the Dampwick Ward in Boralus.”

“So we’ll be headed there, then, if we don't find anything here?” Valeera’s glowing green eyes scanned their surroundings. “Should I head there first? See if I can pick anyone off or weaken their defenses?”

“I think the smartest move, here, would be to have you find some of ‘the powder’ that was mentioned in those letters and bring it back with us.” Anduin said. “This isn’t the same situation as the foundry. We’re surrounded by civilians. The last thing we want is to start a panic.”

“Good point.” Valeera’s ear flicked. “Shouldn’t take me long. Why don’t the three of you look natural and have a look around.”

“The bar at the inn in this town isn’t terrible.” Flynn said. “We could spend a bit of time there.”

Considering that his leg was really starting to get the better of him, now that the damp had been combined with the cold, Anduin didn’t see any particular problems with that much. “Recommendations?”

“Me? I’m a rum man, myself. Surprising, I know.” Tails of his coat rippling behind him, much like Nathanos’ Anduin’s mind couldn’t help but unhelpfully note, Flynn started off towards another nearby building. “Though the Soggy Murloc is a good mixed drink if you’re into those.”

“Soggy Murloc.” Anduin repeated around a desperate effort to suppress a snort. “Sometimes I wonder who comes up with these names.”

“Beats me, mate.”

The inn and attached bar were dimly lit and smokey. Cozy, with a stone hearth and green driftwood flames. A painting of a great galleon on a stormy sea mounted atop the mantle. A large long haired cat was curled up on top of the bar, though it abandoned where it had been lying in favor of the Priest’s lap with a rather loud and demanding mew. Butting its head against his chin.

“Welcome to  _ The Storming Siren _ ,” the bartender, an incredibly thin man halfway through the process of wiping out a towering pyramid of glasses, said when he caught sight of them “what can I get for you?”

“Rum. With an extra shot of rum. And some additional rum.” Flynn grinned.

“Water.” Taelia said. 

“A...Soggy Murloc.” Even ordering the thing made him feel rather foolish. One of the cat’s soft paws tapped him square between the eyes.

“I’ll have that right out for the three of you.” Setting aside the cleaned cup and leaving the remainder of the tower to be cleaned out later, the bartender poured Taelia’s water, Flynn’s rum with an extra shot of rum and then mixed a flurry of unrecognizable alcohols and flavorings into what Anduin assumed was the fabled ‘Soggy Murloc’.

It tasted about like what he’d expect a Murloc to. Hiding his grimace, Anduin set the drink aside. “In the future, I think I’ll stick with a good Dwarven Stout.” Or a Mulgore Firewater, when he wanted something stronger.

“Not much of a drinker, Stormwind?” Flynn snickered, setting his cup aside.

“Anduin isn’t.” He said. “Andrew, though, isn’t a lightweight. Or a virgin.”

“Andrew?” Taelia asked.

The young King nodded. “Jaina gave me a magic charm to change my appearance when she figured out that I was using boot black to dye my hair.” He said. “I use it to conceal my appearance and identity. Sometimes. When I need to get away. Find a bit of company. It’s just...it’s lonely at the top. And the only relationship I’ll ever be able to have with the approval of the House of Nobles would be a loveless one built on duty.” Anduin prodded, slightly accusingly, at his all but untouched drink. “I tried anyway. Once. And quickly learned that my taste in men is shit.”

Bad enough when it had been a supposedly reformed, purified Black Dragon who he had to figure out how to explain to his father. Now it was Nathanos, a highly dangerous high ranking soldier of the Banshee Queen’s Horde. Ruthless. Calculated. Devoted to his Queen and no doubt invested enough in seeing him dead that he’d slit his throat should he ever get another chance. Yet all Anduin could think about was how sharp his jaw was. How large his hands were. How easily the Blightcaller could pick him up and carry him had he even half a mind to, even before the increased strength of undeath was factored in.

“Your face is red again, Stormwind.”

Anduin just shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. “I just...sometimes I wish I wasn’t King. Because it would make it easier. To feel the way that I do. But then I feel guilty because there are so many people suffering in the world, who are so much worse off than I am.” He huffed out a sharp sigh. “Fuck.”

“Light forbid that topic come up while you’re actually drunk because I think we’d be here for the next ten years.” Valeera sidled up to them, a drawstring bag attached to her belt. Noticing his all but untouched drink, she picked it up and tossed it back then raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you order demon piss?”

“You Mainlanders have a weird sense of taste.” Flynn said, prompting both Elf and Priest to stare at him. Taelia shook her head. “The Soggy Murloc is a good drink.”

“Maybe once you’ve pickled all your tastebuds.” She snickered. “But it looks like Valeera has what we came here for so we should pay and head along on our way, if everyone is finished.”

Flynn knocked back the remainder of his drink and pulled out a pair of coins. “Since Stormwind here is a guest of ours, in beautiful Kul Tiras, I’ll cover the tab on this one.”

“Thanks, Flynn.”

Bidding the bartender a polite farewell, the little group exited the bar and made their way back towards the ferry dock. Flashing their passes at the man working the stop, who nodded and motioned them aboard. Only once the little boat had started off across the harbor did Valeera untie the little bag from her belt and hand it over. “Laced gun powder, filled with Azerite. Gleams all blue and golden in the light which immediately gives it away. The basis for all of the weaponry they’re making over there; they fill munitions with it and forge it into swords.” She said. “But it’s not all I found.”

Reaching into her cloak, the Blood Elf, produced a ledger and passed it across the bench to him. Anduin flipped it open and scanned the contents. His eyebrows rising. “Pirates?”

“The Iron Tide, specifically.” Beside him, Flynn winced. “I have reason to think that they’re her ‘clients’ and not the Horde. Not that handing an abundance of super powered weaponry to a bunch of freebooters in the pursuit of no doubt nefarious ends is ever an equation that ends well.”

“But why?” Anduin folded the ledger and slipped it into his own cloak. “What would be the point? What's her end game? And where do we even begin to look to try and find those answers?”

“I think I might know the answer to that, mate.” The former pirate said. “A little place called Freehold.”

  
  


For such a box, at least outwardly, the damnable thing had had a ridiculous depth and only after digging through every last item it contained had the Blightcaller happened upon a handful of pieces which, when combined with his coat, wouldn’t cause him to stick out like even more of a sore thumb. From there, he’d written a curt letter bearing only enough information to peak the recipient's curiosity enough to show up at the included time and waited. When the time had come to set out for the Kul Tiran Capital, Nathanos had left Bloodwing hidden in a stand of pines and just walked into the city between a pair of guards. As if he belonged there. With the coverage of his body provided by his coat and gloves and the shadows of the bicorn atop his head concealing both his eyes and the unnatural bloodless pallor of his skin, nothing about him seemed in any way out of place. Inhuman.

He kept his pace sedate, bow and quiver left behind aboard  _ The Banshee’s Wail _ in favor of his axes, a handful of throwing knives and a few chemical vials attached to his belt, all hidden beneath his coat, and made his way through the crowded streets towards an overlook beside the sea not terribly far from the Hold. There, he waited. Looking out over the Sound and watching the sun slowly set against the water. Bleeding shades of red and orange across the heaving surface. Nathanos didn’t look over at Anduin, when the Priest stepped up beside him. His outline was fuzzier than it should have been, even viewed through his periphery. His coloring just slightly off. But he was there. And he was warm. That vital, living heat which radiated off him sank through his leather gloves as that hand, small with thin fingers, slipped over his. Like it belonged there. Like it was wanted.

It wasn’t. But Nathanos didn’t shake him off. Because doing so would be acknowledging that he was real. He wasn’t real. Just a product of his overstressed mind. 

He felt real.

Nathanos closed his eyes. Blocked out the last of the fading light. The sight of the harbor. Of Anduin. Taking his presence and his touch with it. He felt the span of two breaths pass before he opened them again, and when he did someone else was standing where the Young Lion had been.

“I take it you’re the one responsible for that note?”

Priscilla Ashvane was truly a whale of a woman. Nathanos contained the desire to scowl. “My Lady has an interest in your little coup against the Proudmoore Admiralty.” The Blightcaller pushed up the crest of his bicorn, revealing his eyes, and watched the woman recoil. Her doughy face paled and went slack in alarm. “Sylvanas would like to offer more effective aid than a mere rabble of sea dogs.”

“You. You’re Horde!” She took another step away from him. “Y-You’re dead!”

“Undead. But that’s not what we’re discussing, Lady Ashvane.” Nathanos said, a growl of annoyance entering his voice as he caught sight of Anduin again. The brat had somehow managed to get on top of a nearby roof and was kicking his boot clad feet in the icy wind like a child. “There will be no further courting of their kind necessary, if you take our deal. Though you’re welcome to keep that aid you’ve gained provided they’re willing to coordinate with us. We will give you Boralus, and all of Kul Tiras through it, and drive the Alliance out once and for all. Alongside their spineless King.”

She was eyeing him the way a small snake would a larger, far more deadly one. “I’m not foolish enough to think the Horde’s aid would come without a price.”

“Only one that you’re easily able to pay.” Nathanos turned to face her fully. Leaned his hip against the stone railing. Ignored the fact that Anduin had just slipped down from the roof and come out of a fall which should have broken both his legs unscathed. Paying no notice to the fact that the little King had no face. “We know that you have a source of Azerite that the Alliance isn’t aware of. Turn it over to us, and we’ll deliver this city to you.”

“You’re mad if you expect me to just give you my Azerite!”

“You’re mad if you believe a slapped together group of scallywags will take Boralus from beneath the Admiralty with the Alliance on their side.” He said. “The Lion is already on your tail. Wrynn got to your Foundry before we could. Who knows what else he’s found.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed but the set of her face revealed her building panic. “Your scare tactics will do nothing to push me towards the answers that you want to hear.” She said. “Tell your Warchief that I’ll consider her offer, but that I won’t be threatened. Not by her hounds. Not by that wretched boy’s. Now, I suggest you leave this city before I have you chased out by the guard!”

Nathanos sneered. “Think quickly.” He said as she walked away. “Lest you regret not taking my Lady’s hand, once it's been withdrawn. Sylvanas will not wait forever.”

Ashvane didn’t bother looking back and soon the Dark Ranger Lord found himself alone with his thoughts. And the faceless King. The apparition, figment of his imagination, manifestation of madness, made no reaction to the rude gesture he lobbed at it like a goblin made grenade and turned to walk down an alleyway at casual pace. On impulse, largely driven by agitation, Nathanos charged after it. Following the figure around the back of the Hold and into a ridiculous hedge maze that some pretentious imbecile had thought a better choice than landscaping. Finally managing to corner it in a dead end at the far side, only for it to grin at him. The flat, featureless expanse of its face splitting like taffy pulled past its ability to remain stuck together. Revealing black guns and the pointed teeth of a lion.

Nathanos lunged. Passing clear through its form, as if the thing were made of smoke, and barreling through the hedge. Knocking the bicorn off his head and colliding with something warm and solid on the other side. Something warm and solid which toppled over with a yelp of alarm. Something warm and solid which just so happened to be the  _ very real _ High King of the Alliance.

Apparently unable to process the fact that he was effectively being straddled by a dangerous enemy who’d just come sailing out of a supposedly innocuous well groomed bush, the Human’s face was so red that he looked like he might sprout a nose bleed at any moment.    
Nathanos barely had the chance to process that he’d just leapt head long into something incredibly dumb before the dulcet tones of Genn Greymane screaming “ **_Blightcaller!!!”_ ** at the top of his lungs dragged him back down into the moment.

He leapt off the flattened Priest with a vicious swear and darted back into the maze. Leaving a second hole in the shrubbery, only for the worgen to leave a third as he barreled through in pursuit on all fours.

Whistling shrilly in an effort to summon his mount, and over the huffing of the slavering beast on his heels, Nathanos heard the former Archmage calling to someone else about ‘blocking the exits’ while another woman-no doubt the Lord Admiral herself-shouted for the guard.

The Blightcaller pulled a throwing blade from his belt and lobbed it back at the charging wolfman. Landing a shallow blow on his shoulder and succeeding in slowing him down enough that he was able to climb over the far wall of the maze and dart around the guard who tried to skewer him with a halberd. Hearing the familiar shriek of his riding bat as Bloodwing dove out of the sky. The Dark Ranger Lord caught hold of the saddlehorn and allowed himself to be dragged skyward. Pursued by Greymane’s howling and a bolt of frost magic which narrowly missed his mount’s wing.

Managing to catch a hold of the bat’s fur, he hauled himself up into the saddle properly, he looked down at the rooftops passing by below him. Catching a last fleeting glimpse of the grinning, faceless King as Boralus fell away behind him.


End file.
